.ND 


STORIES  AND  INTERLUDES 


BY 

BARRY    PAIN 


NEW   YORK 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS,   FRANKLIN    SQUARE 
1892 


Copyright,  1892,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 
All  rights  reserved. 


TO 


A.  K  L. 


My  thanks  are  due  to  the  Editors  of  "  The  English  Illustrated 
Magazine,"  "  The  Illustrated  London  News,"  "  Black  and  White," 
"  The  Speaker,"  "  77ie  National  Observer,"  "  77«  Granta,"  and 
"  77ie  Gentlewoman  "  'for  permission  to  reprint  several  things  in 
this  volume. 


•\ 


CO^TESTTS 


PAGE 

I. — THE  GLASS  OF  SUPREME  MOMENTS,      .        .  1 
II.— EXCHANGE:— 

1.  Doris, 20 

2.  Major  Gunnical, 28 

3.  Doris  in  the  Hereafter,         .         .  34 
Interlude  :  A  Man  and  a  God,     ...  40 

III.— RURAL  SIMPLICITY,       ....  42 

IV. — CONCEALED  ART,  ....  .62 

Interlude  :  TJie  Devil's  Auction,  ...       83 

V.— WHEN  THAT  SWEET  CHILD  LAY  DEAD,        .      85 

VI.— THE  MAGIC  MORNING, 98 

Interlude :  My  Lady's  Lilies,       .         .         .114 

VII.— "JADIS," 115 

Interlude  :  Tlie  Bird  Cage,   ....     123 

VIII.— THE  DOG  THAT  GOT  FOUND,         .        .        .126 

Interlude  :  TJie  Bat  and  the  Devil,       .         .135 

IX.— Two  POETS, 137 

Interlude  :  Ainigmata,          ....     144 


PAGE 


VI  CONTENTS 

X.— WHITE  NIGHTS  :— 

1.  The  Story  of  Una  and  Altera,  ,  .     146 

2.  The  Story  of  the  Ferryman,     .  .  .     159 

3.  The  Story  of  Sybil, 169 

4.  The  Story  of  the  Captive,        .  .  .176 

5.  The  Story  of  an  Experiment,  .  .    184 

6.  The  Story  of  a  Picture,   .        .  .  .193 


STORIES  AND  INTERLUDES 


THE  GLASS  OF  SUPREME  MOMENTS 

LUCAS  MORNE  sat  in  his  college  rooms,  when 
the  winter  afternoon  met  the  evening,  depressed 
and  dull.  There  were  various  reasons  for  his 
depression.  He  was  beginning  to  be  a  little 
nervous  about  his  health.  A  week  before  he 
had  run  second  in  a  mile  race,  the  finish  of  which 
had  been  a  terrible  struggle ;  ever  since  then 
any  violent  exertion  or  excitement  had  brought 
on  symptoms  which  were  painful,  and  to  one 
who  had  always  been  strong,  astonishing.  He 
had  ^felt  them  early  that  afternoon,  on  coming 
from  the  river.  Besides,  he  was  discontented 
with  himself.  He  had  had  several  men  in  his 
rooms  that  afternoon,  who  were  better  than  he 
was,  men  who  had  enthusiasms  and  had  found 
them  satisfying.  Lucas  had  a  moderate  de- 
votion to  athletics,  but  no  great  enthusiasm. 
Neither  had  he  the  finer  perceptions.  Neither 
was  he  a  scholar.  He  was  just  an  ordinary 
man,  and  reputed  to  be  a  good  fellow. 

His  visitors  had  drunk  his  tea,  talked  of  their 
1 


INTERLUDES 


own  enthusiasms,  and  were  now  gone.  Noth- 
ing is  so  unclean  as  a  used  tea-cup  ;  nothing  is 
so  cold  as  toast  which  has  once  been  hot,  and 
the  concrete  expression  of  dejection  is  crumbs. 
Even  Lucas  Morne,  who  had  not  the  finer  per- 
ceptions, was  dimly  conscious  that  his  room 
had  become  horrible,  and  now  flung  open  the 
window.  One  of  the  men  —  a  large,  clumsy 
man  —  had  been  smoking  mitigated  Latakia; 
and  Latakia  has  a  way  of  rolling  itself  all  round 
the  atmosphere  and  kicking.  Lucas  seated 
himself  in  his  easiest  chair. 

His  rooms  were  near  the  chapel,  and  he  could 
hear  the  organ.  The  music  and  the  soft  fall  of 
the  darkness  were  soothing  ;  he  could  hardly  see 
the  used  tea-cups  now  ;  the  light  from  the  gas- 
lamp  outside  came  just  a  little  way  into  the 
room,  shyly  and  obliquely. 


Well,  he  had  not  noticed  it  before,  but  the 
fireplace  had  become  a  staircase.  He  felt  too 
lazy  to  wonder  much  at  this.  He  would,  he 
thought,  have  the  things  all  altered  back  again 
on  the  morrow.  It  would  be  worth  while  to 
sell  the  staircase,  seeing  that  its  steps  were 
fashioned  of  silver  and  crystal.  Unfortunately 
he  could  not  see  how  much  there  was  of  it,  or 
whither  it  led.  The  first  five  steps  were  clear 
enough;  he  felt  convinced  that  the  workman- 


THE  GLASS  OF  SUPREME  MOMENTS  3 

ship  of  them  was  Japanese.  But  the  rest  of  the 
staircase  was  hidden  from  his  sight  by  a  gray 
veil  of  mist.  He  found  himself  a  little  angry, 
in  a  severe  and  strictly  logical  way,  that  in 
these  days  of  boasted  science  we  could  not  pre- 
vent a  piece  of  fog,  measuring  ten  feet  by  seven, 
from  coming  in  at  an  open  window  and  sitting 
down  on  a  staircase  which  had  only  just  begun 
to  exist,  and  blotting  out  all  but  five  steps  of  it 
in  its  very  earliest  moments.  He  allowed  that 
it  was  a  beautiful  mist;  its  color  changed 
slowly  from  gray  to  rose,  and  then  back  again 
from  rose  to  gray ;  fire-flies  of  silver  and  gold 
shot  through  it  at  intervals ;  but  it  was  a  nui- 
sance, because  he  wanted  to  see  the  rest  of  the 
staircase,  and  it  prevented  him.  Every  moment 
the  desire  to  see  more  grew  stronger.  At  last 
he  determined  to  shake  off  his  laziness,  and  go 
up  the  staircase  and  through  the  mist  into  the 
something  beyond.  He  felt  sure  that  the  some- 
thing beyond  would  be  beautiful — sure  with 
the  certainty  which  has  nothing  to  do  with  log- 
ical conviction. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  it  was  with  an  effort 
that  he  brought  himself  to  rise  from  the  chair 
and  walk  to  the  foot  of  that  lovely  staircase. 
He  hesitated  there  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  as 
he  did  so  he  heard  the  sound  of  footsteps,  high 
up,  far  away,  yet  coming  nearer  and  nearer, 
with  light  music  in  the  sound  of  them.  Some 


4  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

one  was  coming  down  the  staircase.  He  listened 
eagerly  and  excitedly.  Then  through  the  gray 
mist  came  a  figure  robed  in  gray. 

It  was  the  figure  of  a  woman — young,  with 
wonderful  grace  in  her  movements.  Her  face 
was  veiled,  and  all  that  could  be  seen  of  her  as 
she  paused  on  the  fifth  step  was  the  soft,  dark 
hair  that  reached  to  her  waist,  and  her  arms — 
white  wonders  of  beauty.  The  rest  was  hidden 
by  the  gray  veil,  and  the  long  gray  robe,  that 
left,  however,  their  suggestion  of  classical  grace 
and  slenderness.  Lucas  Morne  stood  looking 
at  her  tremulously.  He  felt  sure,  too,  that  she 
was  looking  at  him,  and  that  she  could  see 
through  the  folds  of  the  thin  gray  veil  that  hid 
her  face.  She  was  the  first  to  speak.  Her 
voice  in  its  gentleness  and  delicacy  was  like 
the  voice  of  a  child ;  it  was  only  afterward  that 
he  heard  in  it  the  under-thrill  which  told  of 
more  than  childhood. 

"Why  have  you  not  come?  I  have  been 
waiting  for  you,  you  know,  up  there.  And 
this  is  the  only  time,"  she  added. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  he  stammered.  "You 
see — I  never  knew  the  staircase  was  there  until 
to-day.  In  fact — it  seerns  very  stupid  of  me— 
but  I  always  thought  it  was  a  fireplace.  I 
must  have  been  dreaming,  of  course.  And 
then  this  afternoon  I  thought,  or  dreamed,  that 
a  lot  of  men  came  in  to  see  me.  Perhaps 


THE  GLASS  OF  SUPREME  MOMENTS  5 

they  really  did  come;  and  we  got  talking,  you 

know " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  the  gentlest  possible 
interruption.  "I  do  know.  There  was  one 
man,  Fynsale,  large,  ugly,  clumsy,  a  year  your 
senior.  He  sat  in  that  chair  over  there,  and 
sulked,  and  smoked  Latakia.  I  rather  like  the 
smell  of  Latakia.  He  especially  loves  to  write 
or  to  say  some  good  thing ;  and  at  times  he  can 
do  it.  Therefore,  you  envy  him.  Then  there 
was  Blake.  Blake  is  an  athlete,  like  yourself, 
but  is  just  a  little  more  successful.  Yes,  I  know 
you  are  good,  but  Blake  is  very  good.  You 
were  tried  for  the  'Varsity — Blake  was  selected. 
He  and  Fynsale  both  have  delight  in  ability, 
and  you  envy  both.  There  was  that  dissenting 
little  Paul  Reece.  He  is  not  exactly  in  your 
set,  but  you  were  at  school  with  him,  and  so 
you  tolerate  him.  How  good  he  is,  for  all  his 
insignificance  and  social  defects !  Blake  knows 
that,  and  kept  a  guard  on  his  talk  this  after- 
noon. He  would  not  offend  Paul  Reece  for 
worlds.  Paul's  belief  gives  him  earnestness, 
his  earnestness  leads  him  to  self-sacrifice,  and 
self-sacrifice  is  deep  delight  to  him.  You  have 
more  ability  than  Paul  Reece,  but  you  cannot 
reach  that  kind  of  enthusiastic  happiness,  and 
therefore  you  envy  him.  I  could -say  similar 
things  of  the  other  men.  It  was  because  they 
made  you  vaguely  dissatisfied  with  yourself  that 


6  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

they  bored  you.  You  take  pleasure — a  certain 
pleasure — in  athletics,  and  that  pleasure  would 
become  an  enthusiastic  delight  if  you  were  a 
little  better  at  them.  Some  men  could  get  the 
enthusiastic  delight  out  of  as  much  as  you  can 
do,  but  your  temperament  is  different.  I  know 
you  well.  You  are  not  easily  satisfied.  You 

are  not  clever,  but  you  are "  She  paused, 

but  without  any  sign  of  embarrassment. 

"What  am  I?"  he  asked  eagerly.  He  felt 
sure  that  it  would  be  something  good,  and  he 
was  not  less  vain  than  other  men. 

"  I  do  not  think  I  will  say — not  now." 

"But  who  are  you?"  His  diffidence  and 
stammering  had  vanished  beneath  her  calm, 
quiet  talk.  "  You  must  let  me  at  least  ask  that. 
Who  are  you  ?  And  how  do  you  know  all  this  ?  " 

"  I  am  a  woman,  but  not  an  earth- woman. 
And  the  chief  difference  between  us  is  that  I 
know  nearly  all  the  things  you  do  not  know, 
and  you  do  not  know  nearly  all  the  things  that 
I  know.  Sometimes  I  forget  your  ignorance — 
do  not  be  angry  for  a  word ;  there  is  no  other 
for  it,  and  it  is  not  your  fault.  I  forgot  it  just 
now  when  I  asked  you  why  you  had  not  come 
to  me  up  the  staircase  of  silver  and  crystal, 
through  the  gray  veil  where  the  fire-flies  live, 
and  into  that  quiet  room  beyond.  This*  is  the 
only  time ;  to-morrow  it  will  not  be  possible. 
And  I  have "  Once  more  she  paused. 


THE  GLASS  OF  SUPREME  MOMENTS  7 

There  was  a  charm  for  Lucas  Morne  in  the 
things  which  she  did  not  say.  "  Your  room  is 
dark,"  she  continued,  "and  I  can  hardly  see 
you." 

"  I  will  light  the  lamp,"  said  Lucas  hurriedly , 
"  and — and  won't  you  let  me  get  you  some  tea?  " 
He  saw,  as  soon  as  he  had  said  it,  how  unspeak- 
ably ludicrous  this  proffer  of  hospitality  was. 
He  almost  fancied  a  smile,  a  moment's  shim- 
mer of  little  white  teeth,  beneath  the  long  gray 
veil.  "  Or  shall  I  come  now — at  once?  "  he 
added. 

"  Come  now ;  I  will  show  you  the  mirror." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  You  will  understand  when  you  see  it.  It 
is  the  glass  of  supreme  moments.  I  shall  tell 
you  about  it.  But  come." 

She  looked  graceful,  and  she  suggested  the 
most  perfect  beauty  as  she  stood  there,  a  slight 
figure  against  the  background  of  gray  mist, 
which  had  grown  luminous  as  the  room  below 
grew  darker.  Lucas  Morne  went  carefully  up 
the  five  steps,  and  together  they  passed  through 
the  gray,  misty  curtain.  He  was  wondering 
what  the  face  was  like  which  was  hidden  be- 
neath that  veil ;  would  it  be  possible  to  induce 
her  to  remove  the  veil?  He  might,  perhaps, 
lead  the  conversation  thither — delicately  and 
subtly. 

"A  cousin  of   mine,"  he   began,  "who  has 


8  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

travelled  a  good  deal,  once  told  me  that  the 
women  of  the  East " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  and  way  were 
so  gentle  that  it  hardly  seemed  like  an  inter- 
ruption; "and  so  do  I." 

He  felt  very  much  anticipated ;  for  a  moment 
he  was  driven  back  into  the  shy  and  stammer- 
ing state.  There  were  only  a  few  more  steps 
now,  and  then  they  entered  through  a  rosy  cur- 
tain into  a  room,  which  he  supposed  to  be  "that 
quiet  room  beyond,"  of  which  she  had  spoken. 

It  was  a  large  room,  square  in  shape.  The 
floor  was  covered  with  black  and  white  tiles, 
with  the  exception  of  a  small  square  space  in 
the  centre,  which  looked  like  silver,  and  over 
which  a  ripple  seemed  occasionally  to  pass. 
She  pointed  it  out  to  him.  "  That, "  she  said, 
"is  the  glass  of  supreme  moments."  There 
were  no  windows,  and  the  soft  light  that  filled 
the  room  seemed  to  come  from  that  liquid  silver 
mirror  in  the  centre  of  the  floor.  The  walls, 
which  were  lofty,  were  hung  with  curtains  of 
different  colors,  all  subdued,  dreamy,  reposeful. 
These  colors  were  repeated  in  the  painting  of 
the  ceiling.  In  a  recess  at  the  further  end  of 
the  room  there  were  seats,  low  seats  on  which 
one  could  sleep.  There  was  a  faint  smell  of 
syringa  in  the  air,  making  it  heavy  and  drowsy. 
Now  and  then  one  heard  faintly,  as  if  afar  off, 
the  great  music  of  an  organ.  Could  it,  he 


THE   GLASS   OF   SUPREME   MOMENTS  9 

found  himself  wondering,  be  the  organ  of  the 
college  chapel?  It  was  restful  and  pleasant  to 
hear.  She  drew  him  to  one  of  the  seats  in  the 
recess,  and  once  more  pointed  to  the  mirror. 

"  All  the  ecstasy  in  the  world  lies  reflected 
there.  The  supreme  moments  of  each  man's 
life — the  scene,  the  spoken  words — all  lie  there. 
Past  and  present,  and  future — all  are  there." 

"  Shall  I  be  able  to  see  them?  " 

"If  you  will." 

"And  how?" 

"  Bend  over  the  mirror,  and  say  the  name  of 
the  man  or  woman  into  whose  life  you  wish  to 
see.  You  only  have  to  want  it,  and  it  will 
appear  before  your  eyes.  But  there  are  some 
lives  which  have  no  supreme  moments. " 

"  Commonplace  lives?  " 

"Yes." 

Lucas  Morne  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  mirror 
and  knelt  down,  looking  into  it.  The  ripple 
passed  to  and  fro  over  the  surface.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  hesitated,  doubting  for  whom  he  should 
ask ;  and  then  he  said  in  a  low  voice :  "  Are 
there  supreme  moments  in  the  life  of  Blake — 
Vincent  Blake,  the  athlete?"  The  surf  ace  of 
the  mirror  suddenly  grew  still,  and  in  it  rose 
what  seemed  a  living  picture. 

He  could  see  once  more  the  mile  race  in  which 
he  had  been  defeated  by  Blake.  It  was  the 
third  and  last  lap ;  and  he  himself  was  leading 


10  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

by  some  twenty  yards,  for  Blake  was  waiting. 
There  was  a  vast  crowd  of  spectators,  and  he 
could  hear  every  now  and  then  the  dull  sound  of 
their  voices.  He  saw  Vincent  Blake  slightly 
quicken  his  pace,  and  marked  his  own  plucky 
attempt  to  answer  it;  he  saw,  too,  that  he  had 
very  little  left  in  him.  Gradually  Blake  drew 
up,  until  at  a  hundred  yards  from  the  finish 
there  were  not  more  than  five  yards  between 
the  two  runners.  Then  he  noticed  his  own 
fresh  attempt.  There  were  some  fifty  yards  of 
desperate  fighting,  in  which  neither  seemed  to 
gain  or  lose  an  inch  on  the  other.  The  voices 
of  the  excited  crowd  rose  to  a  roar.  .And  then 
— then  Blake  had  it  his  own  way.  He  saw 
himself  passed  a  yard  from  the  tape. 

"Blake  has  always  just  beaten  me,"  he  said 
savagely  as  he  turned  from  the  mirror. 

He  went  back  to  his  seat.  "Tell  me,"  he 
said;  "does  that  picture  really  represent  the 
supreme  moments  of  Blake's  life?  " 

"Yes,"  answered  the  veiled  woman,  "he  will 
have  nothing  quite  like  the  ecstasy  which  he  felt 
at  winning  that  race.  He  will  marry,  and 
have  children,  and  his  married  life  will  be 
happy,  but  the  happiness  will  not  be  so  intense. 
There  is  an  emotion-meter  outside  this  room, 
you  know,  which  measures  such  things." 

"Now  if  one  wanted  to  bet  on  a  race,"  he 
beg-an.  Then  he  stopped  short.  He  had  none 


THE  GLASS  OF   SUPREME   MOMENTS          11 

of  the  finer  perceptions,  but  it  did  not  take  these 
to  show  him  that  he  was  becoming  a  little  in- 
appropriate. "  I  will  look  again  at  the  mirror," 
'  he  added  after  a  pause.  "  I  am  afraid,  though, 
that  all  this  will  make  me  more  discontented 
with  myself." 

Once  more  he  looked  into  the  glass  of  supreme 
moments.  He  murmured  the  name  of  Paul 
Reece,  the  good  little  dissenter,  his  old  school- 
fellow. It  was  not  in  the  power  of  accomplish- 
ment that  Paul  Reece  excelled  Lucas  Morne, 
but  only  in  the  goodness  and  spirituality  of  his 
nature.  As  he  looked,  once  more  a  picture 
formed  on  the  surface  of  the  mirror.  It  was  of 
the  future  this  time. 

It  was  a  sombre  picture  of  the  interior  of  a 
church.  Through  the  open  door  one  saw  the 
snow  falling  slowly  into  the  dusk  of  a  winter 
afternoon.  Within,  before  the  richly  decorated 
altar,  flickered  the  little  ruby  flames  of  hanging 
lamps.  On  the  walls,  dim  in  the  dying  light, 
were  painted  the  stations  of  the  Cross.  The 
fragrance  of  the  incense  smoke  still  lingered  in 
the  air.  He  could  see  but  one  figure,  bowed, 
black-robed,  before  the  altar.  "  And  is  this  Paul 
Reece — who  was  a  dissenter?  "  he  asked  himself, 
knowing  that  it  was  he.  Some  one  was  seated 
at  the  organ,  and  the  cry  of  the  music  was  full 
of  appeal,  and  yet  full  of  peace :  "  Agnus  Dei, 
qui  tollis  peccata  mundi ! " 


12  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

Then  the  picture  died  away,  and  once  more 
the  little  ripple  moved  to  and  fro  over  the  sur- 
face of  the  liquid  silver  mirror.  Lucas  went 
back  again  to  his  place.  The  veiled  woman  was 
leaning  backward,  her  small  white  hands  linked 
together.  She  did  not  speak,  but  he  was  sure 
that  she  was  looking  at  him — looking  at  him 
intently.  Slowly  it  came  to  him  that  there  was 
in  this  woman  a  subtle,  mastering  attraction 
which  he  had  never  known  before.  And  side 
by  side  with  this  thought  there  still  remained 
the  feeling  which  had  filled  him  as  he  witnessed 
the  supreme  moments  of  Paul  Reece,  a  paradox- 
ical feeling  which  was  half  restlessness  and  half 
peace. 

"  I  do  not  know  if  I  envy  Paul,"  he  said,  "  but 
if  so,  it  is  not  the  envy  which  hurts.  I  shall 
never  belike  him.  I  can't  feel  as  he  does.  It's 
not  in  me.  But  this  picture  did  not  make  me 
angry  as  the  other  did."  He  looked  steadfastly 
at  the  graceful,  veiled  figure,  and  added  in  a 
lower  tone :  "  When  I  spoke  of  the  travels  of 
my  cousin  a  little  while  ago — over  Palestine 
and  Turkey,  and  thereabouts,  you  know — I  had 
meant  to  lead  up  to  a  question,  as  you  saw.  1 
had  meant  to  ask  you  if  you  would  put  away 
your  veil  and  let  me  see  your  face.  And  there 
are  many  things  which  I  want  to  know  about 
you.  May  I  not  stay  here  by  your  side  and 
talk?" 


THE   GLASS   OF  SUPREME  MOMENTS  13 

"  Soon,  very  soon,  I  will  talk  with  you,  and 
after  that  you  shall  see  me.  What  do  think, 
then,  of  the  glass  of  supreme  moments?  " 

"  It  is  wonderful.  I  only  feared  the  sight  of 
exquisite  happiness  in  others  would  make  me 
more  discontented.  At  first  you  seemed  to 
think  that  I  was  too  dissatisfied." 

"Do  not  be  deceived.  Do  not  think  that 
these  supreme  moments  are  everything ;  for  that 
life  is  easiest  which  is  gentle,  level,  placid,  and 
has  no  supreme  moments.  There  is  a  picture 
in  the  lifo  of  your  friend  Fynsale  which  I  wish 
you  to  see.  Look  at  it  in  the  mirror,  and  then 
I  shall  have  something  to  tell  you." 

Lucas  did  as  he  was  bidden.  The  mirror 
showed  him  a  wretched,  dingy  room — sitting- 
room  and  bedroom  combined — in  a  lodging- 
house.  At  a  little  rickety  table,  pushed  in  front 
of  a  very  small  fire,  Fynsale  sat  writing  by  lamp- 
light. The  lamp  was  out  of  order  apparently. 
The  combined  smell  of  lamp  and  Latakia  was 
poignant.  There  was  a  pile  of  manuscript  be- 
fore him,  and  on  the  top  of  it  he  was  placing 
the  sheet  he  had  just  written.  Then  he  rose 
from  his  chair,  folded  his  arms  on  the  mantel- 
piece, and  bent  down,  with  his  head  on  his 
hands,  looking  into  the  fire.  It  was  an  un- 
couth attitude  of  which,  Lucas  remembered, 
Fynsale  had  been  particularly  fond  when  he 
was  at  college. 


14  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

When  the  picture  had  passed,  Lucas  looked 
round,  and  saw  that  the  veiled  woman  had  left 
the  recess,  and  was  now  standing  by  his  side. 
"I  do  not  understand  this,"  he  said.  "How 
can  those  be  the  supreme  moments  in  Fynsale's 
life?  He  looked  poor  and  shabby,  and  the  room 
was  positively  wretched.  Where  does  the  ec- 
stasy come  in?  " 

"He  has  just  finished  his  novel;  and  he  is 
quite  madly  in  love  with  it.  Some  of  it  is  very 
good,  and  some  of  it — from  merely  physical 
reasons — is  very  bad ;  he  was  half-starved  when 
he  was  writing  it,  and  it  is  not  possible  to  write 
very  well  when  one  is  half -starved.  But  he 
loves  it.  I  am  speaking  of  all  this  as  if,  like 
the  picture  of  it,  it  was  present;  although,  of 
course,  it  has  not  happened  yet.  But  I  will  tell 
you  more.  I  will  show  you,  in  this  case  at 
least,  what  these  moments  of  ecstasy  are  worth. 
Some  of  Fynsale's  book,  I  have  said,  is  very 
good,  and  some  of  it  is  very  bad ;  but  none  of 
it  is  what  people  want.  He  will  take  it  to  pub- 
lisher after  publisher,  and  they  will  refuse  it. 
After  three  years  it  will  at  last  be  published, 
and  it  will  not  succeed  in  the  least.  And  all 
through  these  years  of  failure  he  will  recall 
from  time  to  time  the  splendid  joy  he  felt  at 
finishing  that  book,  and  how  glad  he  was  that 
he  had  made  it.  The  thought  of  that  past 
ecstasy  will  make  the  torture  all  the  worse." 


THE   GLASS   OF   SUPREME   MOMENTS  15 

"Perhaps,  then,  after  all  I  should  be  glad 
that  I  am  commonplace?  "  said  Lucas. 

"  It  does  not  always  follow,  though,  that  the 
commonplace  people  have  commonplace  lives. 
There  have  been  men  who  have  been  so  ordinary 
that  it  hurt  one  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
them,  and  yet  the  gods  have  made  them  come 
into  poetry." 

Once  more  Lucas  fancied  that  a  smile  with 
magic  in  it  might  be  fluttering  under  that  gray 
veil.  Every  moment  the  fascination  of  this 
woman,  whose  face  he  had  not  seen,  and  with 
whom  he  had  spoken  for  so  short  a  time,  grew 
stronger  on  him .  He  did  not  know  from  whence 
it  came,  whether  it  lay  in  the  grace  of  her  figure 
and  her  movements,  or  in  the  beauty  of  her 
long,  dark  hair,  or  in  the  music  of  her  voice,  or 
in  that  subtle,  indefinable  way  in  which  she 
seemed  to  show  him  that  she  cared  for  him 
deeply.  The  room  itself,  quiet,  mystical,  rest- 
ful, dedicated  to  the  ecstasy  of  the  world,  had 
its  effect  upon  his  senses.  More  than  ever  be- 
fore he  felt  himself  impressed,  tremulous  with 
emotion.  He  knew  that  she  saw  how,  in  spite 
of  himself,  the  look  of  adoration  would  come 
into  his  eyes. 

And  suddenly  she,  whom  but  a  moment  be- 
fore he  had  imagined  to  be  smiling  at  her  own 
light  thoughts,  seemed  swayed  by  a  more  serious 
impulse, 


16  STORIES   AND    INTERLUDES 

"You  must  be  comforted,  though,  and  be 
angry  with  yourself  no  longer.  For  you  are 
not  commonplace,  because  you  know  that  you 
are  commonplace.  It  is  something  to  have 
wanted  the  right  things,  although  the  gods 
have  given  you  no  power  to  attain  them,  nor 
even  the  wit  and  words  to  make  your  want 
eloquent."  Her  voice  was  deeper,  touched  with 
the  under- thrill. 

"This,"  he  said,  "is  the  second  time  you 
have  spoken  of  the  gods — and  yet  we  are  in  the 
nineteenth  century." 

"Are  we?  I  am  very  old  and  very  young. 
Time  is  nothing  to  me ;  it  does  not  change  me. 
Yesterday  in  Italy  each  grave  and  stream  spoke 
of  divinity.  lNon  omnis  mortar,'  sang  one  in 
confidence,  'Non  omnis  moriar  ! '  I  heard  his 
voice,  and  now  he  is  passed  and  gone  from  the 
world." 

"  "We  read  him  still,"  said  Lucas  Morne,  with 
a  little  pride.  He  was  not  intending  to  take 
the  classical  tripos,  but  he  had  with  the  help  of 
a  translation  read  that  ode  from  which  she  was 
quoting.  She  did  not  heed  his  interruption  in 
the  least.  She  went  on  speaking : 

"And  to-day  in  England  there  is  but  little 
which  is  sacred ;  yet  here,  too,  my  work  is  seen ; 
and  here,  too,  as  they  die,  they  cry,  'I  shall  not 
die,  but  live!'  " 

"You  will  think  me    stupid,"   said  Lucas 


THE  GLASS  OF  SUPREME  MOMENTS     17 

Morne,  a  little  bewildered,  "  but  I  really  do  not 
understand  you.  I  do  not  follow  you.  I  can- 
not see  to  what  you  refer." 

"  That  is  because  you  do  not  know  who  I  am. 
Before  the  end  of  to-day  I  think  we  shall  under- 
stand each  other  well." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  and  then  Lucas 
Morne  spoke  again : 

"  You  have  told  me  that  even  in  the  lives  of 
commonplace  people  there  are  sometimes  su- 
preme moments.  I  had  scarcely  hoped  for 
them  and  you  have  bidden  me  not  to  desire 
them.  Shall  I — even  I — know  what  ecstasy 
means?  " 

"Yes,  yes;  I  think  so." 

"  Then  let  me  see  it,  as  I  saw  the  rest  pictured 
in  the  mirror."  He  spoke  with  some  hesita- 
tion, his  eyes  fixed  on  the  tiled  floor  of  the 
room. 

"That  need  not  be,"  she  answered,  and  she 
hardly  seemed  to  have  perfect  control  over  the 
tones  of  her  voice  now.  "That  need  not  be, 
Lucas  Morne,  for  the  supreme  moments  of  your 
life  are  here,  here  and  now." 

He  looked  up,  suddenly  and  excitedly.  She 
had  flung  back  the  gray  veil  over  her  long,  dark 
hair,  and  stood  revealed  before  him,  looking 
ardently  into  his  eyes.  Her  face  was  paler  than 
that  of  average  beauty;  the  lips,  shapely  and 
scarlet,  were  just  parted ;  but  the  eyes  gave  the 


18  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

most  wonderful  charm.  They  were  like  flames 
at  midnight — not  the  soft,  gray  eyes  that  make 
men  better,  but  the  passionate  eyes  that  make 
men  forget  honor,  and  reason,  and  everything. 
She  stretched  out  both  hands  toward  him,  im- 
pulsively, appealingly.  He  grasped  them  in 
his  own.  His  own  hands  were  hot,  burning; 
every  nerve  in  them  tingled  with  excitement. 
For  a  moment  he  held  her  at  arm's-length,  look- 
ing at  her,  and  said  nothing.  At  last  he  found 
words : 

"I  knew  that  you  would  be  like  this.  I 
think  that  I  have  loved  you  all  my  life.  I  wish 
that  I  might  be  with  you  forever." 

There  was  a  strange  expression  on  her  face. 
She  did  not  speak,  but  she  drew  him  nearer 
to  her. 

"  Tell  me  your  name,"  he  said. 

"  Yesterday,  where  that  poet  lived — that  con- 
fident poet — they  called  me  Libitina ;  and  here 
to-day,  they  call  me  Death.  My  name  matters 
not,  if  you  love  me.  For  to  you  alone  have  I 
come  thus.  For  the  rest,  I  have  done  my  work 
unseen.  Only  in  this  hour — only  in  this  hour — 
was  it  possible." 

He  had  hardly  heeded  what  she  said.  He 
bent  down  over  her  face. 

"Stay!"  she  said  in  a  hurried  whisper;  "if 
you  kiss  me  you  will  die." 

He  smiled  triumphantly.     "But  I  shall  die 


THE   GLASS  OF   SUPREME   MOMENTS  19 

kissing  you,"  he  said.     And  so  their  lips  met. 
Her  lips  were  scarlet,  but  they  were  icy  cold. 

The  captain  of  the  football  team  had  just 
come  out  of  evening  chapel,  his  gown  slung 
over  his  arm,  his  cap  pulled  over  his  eyes,  look- 
ing good-tempered,  and  strong,  and  jolly,  but 
hardly  devotional.  He  saw  the  window  of 
Morne's  rooms  open — they  were  on  the  ground- 
floor — and  looked  in.  By  the  glow  of  the  fail- 
ing fire  he  saw  what  he  thought  was  Lucas 
Morne  seated  in  a  lounge-chair.  He  called  to 
him,  but  there  was  no  answer.  "  The  old  idiot's 
asleep,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  climbed  in  at 
the  window.  "Wake  up,  old  man,"  he  cried, 
as  he  put  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  Lucas 
Morne's  body,  and  swung  it  forward;  "wake 
up,  old  man." 

The  body  rolled  forward  and  fell  sideways  to 
the  ground  heavily  and  clumsily.  It  lay  there 
motionless. 


II 

EXCHANGE 

1— DORIS 

THERE  was  once  a  girl-child  named  Doris 
who  went  out  skating  with  her  bigger  brothers 
one  afternoon  over  flooded  fields  in  the  Fen 
country.  But  her  brothers  played  hockey  with 
school-fellows,  and  Doris  skated  contentedly 
enough  by  herself.  She  was  wearing  Bob's 
skates,  which  she  liked  better  than  her  own, 
and  the  man  had  put  them  on  very  well  indeed. 
She  went  from  one  field  through  a  gap  in  the 
hedge  into  the  next,  and  then  on  into  a  third 
field.  There  were  very  few  people  here,  and 
most  of  the  ice  was  not  swept ;  all  of  this  was 
very  pleasant  to  Doris,  and  made  her  feel  ad- 
venturous. It  was  beautiful,  too;  and  even 
children  unconsciously  understand  a  sunset 
with  those  old  thin  trees  trembling  black 
against  the  crimson  disc,  and  everywhere  bits 
of  white  brightness  on  a  gray  sea  of  fog.  She 
skated  as  fast  as  she  could,  the  wind  helping 
her,  feeling  strangely  and  splendidly  animated, 
when  quite  suddenly  .  .  . 


EXCHANGE  21 

But  this  was  not  the  Fen  country.  This  was 
the  north  of  Yorkshire.  She  had  been  here 
before  on  a  visit  to  her  cousins.  Yonder  was 
the  top  of  Winder ;  she  had  climbed  it  on  clear 
days  and  seen  Morecambe  Bay  flashing  in  the 
distance.  But  it  was  night  now — almost  a  black 
night,  and  it  was  very  cold  for  Doris  to  be  wan- 
dering over  those  hills  alone.  She  had  an  irri- 
tating sensation  that  she  had  to  go  somewhere 
before  the  dawn  came,  and  that  she  did  not 
know  where  or  why.  It  was  lonely  and  awe- 
some. "  If  I  only  had  somebody  to  speak  to,  I 
shouldn't  mind  it  so  much,"  she  said  to  herself. 
At  once  she  heard  a  low  voice  saying,  "  Doris ! 
Doris ! "  and  she  looked  round. 

In  a  recess  of  the  ravine  which  a  ghyll  had 
made  for  itself  as  it  leaped  from  the  cold  purity 
of  a  hill-top  to  the  warm  humanity  of  a  village 
in  the  valley — a  village  no  better  than  it  should 
have  been — a  small  fire  of  sticks  was  smoul- 
dering. Doris  could  just  see  that  the  person 
crouched  in  front  of  the  fire — the  person  who 
had  called  her  by  her  name — was  an  old,  hag- 
gard woman,  with  her  chin  resting  on  her 
knees. 

"Tell  me,  old  woman,"  Doris  said  almost 
angrily,  "what  does  this  all  mean?  I  was  at 
Lingay  Fen  skating,  and  now  I  am  wandering 
over  the  Yorkshire  hills.  It  has  changed  from 
afternoon  to  night " 


22  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

"  It  generally  does, "  said  the  old  woman  in  a 
chilly,  unemphatic  way.  Doris  stamped  her 
foot  impatiently.  "  I  mean  that  it  has  changed 
quite  suddenly.  Just  a  moment  ago,  too,  I  felt 
quite  certain  that  I  had  to  go  somewhere,  and 
I  had  forgotten  where.  Now  I  don't  think  I 
have  to  go  anywhere. " 

"  No — you  have  arrived,"  said  the  old  woman 
softly. 

At  that  moment  a  dry  twig  burst  into  flame, 
and  lit  up  the  old  woman's  face  and  figure  for 
a  second.  She  was  hideous  enough;  her  face 
was  thin  and  yellow ;  her  cavernous  eyes  spar- 
kled to  the  momentary  flicker.  Her  dress  and 
cloak  were  torn  and  faded,  but  they  had  been 
bright  scarlet. 

"You  naturally  ask  why,"  she  continued, 
"because  you  are  young  and  have  not  yet 
learned  the  uselessness  of  it.  What  has  just 
happened  to  you  seems  very  meaningless  and 
foolish,  but  it  is  not  more  meaningless  and  fool- 
ish than  the  rest  of  things.  It  is  all  a  poor  sort 
of  game,  you  know.  Explain?  No,  I  shall 
not  explain ;  but  it  was  I  who  brought  you  here. 
Sit  down  by  me  under  the  night  sky,  and 
watch." 

"No,  I  will  not,"  said  Doris,  and  walked 
away.  She  took  about  ten  paces  away,  and 
then  came  back  again  and  did  the  very  thing 
which  she  said  she  would  not  do.  She  sat  down 


EXCHANGE  23 

by  the  old  woman,  and  was  a  little  angry  be- 
cause she  could  not  help  doing  it.  Then  she 
began  to  grumble  at  the  fire.  "  That's  not  half 
a  fire,"  she  said;  "it  just  smoulders  and  makes 
smoke.  I  will  show  you  what  you  ought  to  do. 
You  put  on  some  fresh  sticks — so.  Then  you 
put  your  mouth  quite  close  to  the  embers,  and 
blow  and  keep — on — blowing.  There ! "  She 
had  fitted  her  actions  to  her  words,  and  now  a 
bright  flame  leaped  out.  It  shone  all  over,  on 
her  dark  hair  and  dark  bright  eyes,  and  on  the 
gray  furs  of  her  dress.  It  shone,  too,  on  the  old 
woman,  who  was  smiling  an  ugly,  half-sup- 
pressed smile. 

"  Doris, "  said  the  old  woman,  "  leave  the  fire 
alone.  I  do  not  want  flame.  I  only  want  it  to 
stream  forth  smoke." 

"But  why?" 

"See  now — there."  The  old  woman  made  a 
downward  gesture  with  both  hands,  and  the 
flame  sank  obediently  down  again,  giving  place 
to  a  quick  yield  of  black  smoke.  "  Look  at  the 
smoke,  Doris.  That  is  what  you  have  to  watch. " 
There  was  a  little  more  energy  in  the  old,  qua- 
vering voice  now. 

DoriS  did  as  she  was  told ;  but  suddenly  she 
stopped  and  cried,  half-frightened,  "  There  are 
faces  in  it !  " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  old  woman,  almost 
eagerly ;  "  and  there  are  pictures  of  the  future 


24  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

in  it — of  the  future  as  it  will  be  unless  I  alter 
it  this  night.  I  alone  can  alter  it,  you  know. 
Are  you  not  glad  now  that  you  came?  " 

"  It  is  something  like  fortune- telling ;  did  you 
ever  have  your  fortune  told?" 

"No,  I  never  did,"  replied  the  old  woman. 
Her  smile  was  very  ugly  indeed. 

"  But  how  shall  I  know  that  it's  true?  " 

"Why,  you  do  know." 

That  was  the  strangest  part  of  it.  Doris  felt 
certain  without  having  a  reason  that  she  could 
give  for  it.  "Show  me  my  future,"  she  said 
breathlessly. 

"Watch  the  smoke,  then." 

So  she  watched,  and  picture  followed  picture. 
At  the  first  of  them  she  made  some  little  exclama- 
tion. "  Ah ! "  she  cried,  "  that  is  a  splendid 
dress;  and  I  do  like  those  shoes.  I  wish  I 
might  have  long  dresses  now — I'm  sure  I'm  old 
enough ;  and  I  want  to  have  my  hair  done  up 
the  proper  way,  but "  She  stopped  sud- 
denly, because  the  picture  had  changed.  "I 
look  much  prettier  in  this  one,"  she  said.  "I 
have  been  dancing,  I  think,  from  the  dress,  and 
because  I  seem  a  little  out  of  breath.  There  is 
a  man  with  me,  and  now  he — no,  no.!  I  would 
not.  I  should  hate  it.  That  picture  cannot 
be  right ! "  The  third  picture  represented  her 
marriage  with  great  splendor.  "Well,"  she 
said,  "  I  do  not  mind  that  so  much — just  stand- 


EXCHANGE  25 

ing  up  and  wearing  a  beautiful  veil.  But  I 
don't  want  to  be  married  at  all.  I  like  skating 
ever  so  much  better." 

There  was  a  faint  sound  of  laughter,  muffled 
and  bitter,  from  the  old  woman.  "You  like 
skating?  "  she  said.  "Where  are  your  skates, 
then,  Doris?  "  Doris  looked  for  them,  but  could 
not  find  them,  and  this  distressed  her.  "Oh, 
what  shall  I  do?  They  were  not  my  skates; 
they  were  Bob's." 

"Who  is  Bob?" 

"  Bob  is  my  smallest  brother — ever  so  much 
younger  than  I  am;  he's  my  favorite  brother, 
too.  He's  got  red  hair,  but  he's  a  pretty 
boy." 

"  He  must  be  a  milksop  if  he  can't  skate." 

"  He  can  skate.  He  can  do  the  outside  edge 
backward;  he  skates  better  than  any  of  my 
three  big  brothers." 

"Well,  well — it's  a  pity  that  he's  stupid, 
though." 

"  Stupid?  Do  you  know  why  he  lent  me  his 
skates?  Because  he  was  going  to  write  a  story 
this  afternoon,  and  he's  going  to  put  me  in  it. 
Bob  can  do  almost  anything.  He's  wonderful. 
When  he  grows  up  he'll  very  likely  write  a 
whole  book,  he  says." 

"Look  at  his  future — Bob's  future — in  the 
smoke, "  said  the  old  woman  grimly,  heaping  on 
more  sticks. 


26  STORIES   AND    INTERLUDES 

Doris  looked  reluctantly.  The  pictures  came 
flashing  past  one  after  the  other.  Some  she 
could  not  altogether  understand,  for  she  knew 
nothing  of  the  vices  of  young  men;  but  they 
were  vaguely  terrible.  But  even  a  child  could 
understand  the  last  picture  of  all.  It  was 
awful  and  vivid.  She  almost  fancied  that 
she  could  hear  the  report  of  the  pistol,  and  the 
dim  thud  as  the  body  fell  awkwardly  on  the 
floor. 

"You  needn't  cry,"  said  the  old  woman,  as 
Doris  burst  into  tears. 

"Oh!  Bob  is  so  splendid,"  sobbed  Doris. 
"  Don't  let  it  be  like  that.  Do  alter  it.  You 
don't  know  him  or  you  would  change  it. 
You  said  you  could.  I'll  give  you  everything 
I've  got  if  you'll  stop  it  somehow." 

"  Will  you  give  me  your  beauty — your  youth — 
your  life?  " 

"  Oh,  willingly — everything ! " 

"I  want  none  of  them — none  of  them,"  said 
the  old  woman  fiercely  and  quickly.  "  But  I 
want  something  else.  Give  it  me,  and  I  will 
alter  it  as  you  wish."  She  stretched  out  a  lean 
finger  and  tapped  Doris'  forehead,  and  whis- 
pered a  few  words  in  her  ear. 

Doris  turned  white  enough,  but  she  nodded 
assent.  "Then  it  will  alter  my  future,  too," 
she  said  with  a  little  gasp. 

"  It  will  alter  the  future  of  everybody  in  the 


EXCHANGE  27 

world  —  indirectly  and  in  some  cases  very 
slightly.  But  you  will  give  it  me?  " 

"  Yes,  yes. "  She  paused  a  moment,  and  then 
added  a  torrent  of  questions:  "Old  woman, 
who  are  you?  Why  are  you  dressed  in  scarlet? 
Why  did  you  have  me  brought  here?  I  should 
like  it  to  turn  out  to  be  a  dream.  Oh !  why  do 
you  want  it?  Why  are  you  so  horribly — horri- 
bly cruel?" 

But  the  old  woman,  and  the  fire,  and  the 
great  dark  hills  grew  dim  and  indistinct ;  and 
there  was  no  answer. 

The  two  old  men — one  with  a  medical,  the 
other  with  a  military  air — came  slowly  down 
the  broad  staircase  from  the  bedrooms  without 
speaking.  The  little  red-headed  boy  was  wait- 
ing for  them  as  usual.  "  Is  Doris  any  better, 
papa?  "  he  asked  eagerly.  "  Will  she  live?  " 

It  was  no  good  to  keep  it  from  him ;  he  would 
have  to  know  sooner  or  later. 

"Yes,  Bob,"  said  the  colonel,  "she  will  live. 

But  the — the  injury  to  her  head  has "  He 

stopped  with  a  gulping  sound  in  his  voice. 
The  boy  looked  up  at  him  wistfully  with  a  scared 
face. 

"Don't,  colonel,"  said  the  doctor;  "you'd 
better  leave  it  to  me.  I  will  tell  the  boy." 


*8  STORIES  AND  INTERLUDES 

2— MAJOR  GUNNICAL 

NOBODY  ever  denied  in  my  presence  that 
Major  Gunnical  was  a  capital  shot  and  a  good 
fellow.  He  went  straight,  and  it  was  always 
imputed  to  him  for  righteousness.  But  the 
other  day  the  only  man  of  the  world  with  whom 
I  am  acquainted  accused  the  major  of  want  of 
taste,  and  based  his  accusation  on  the  fact  that 
he  took  the  liberty  of  dying  in  the  country-house 
of  a  friend,  not  having  been  invited  for  that 
purpose.  I  might  have  pointed  out  that  Major 
Gunnical  knew  Sir  Charles  quite  well  enough 
to  take  a  liberty  which  would  have  been  unpar- 
donable in  a  casual  guest ;  I  might  have  added 
that  it  was  one  of  those  accidents  which  may 
happen  to  any  man,  and  that  it  was  uninten- 
tional and  unforeseen  on  the  major's  part.  But 
I  prefer  to  give  the  facts  of  the  case,  which 
seem  to  me  to  explain  everything. 

On  the  evening  which  opened  the  night  of 
his  death,  Major  Gunnical  had  gone  upstairs  to 
dress  sooner  than  the  rest  of  them.  He  stood 
in  his  bedroom  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  well 
knowing  that  if  the  back  be  warm  the  whole 
body  is  warm  also.  He  was  half-afraid  that 
he  had  caught  a  chill,  and  chills  affected  him. 
There  was  nothing  in  his  appearance  to  tell  you 
that  his  heart  was  wrong.  His  body  was  large 
and  muscular,  and  he  looked  a  strong  man. 


EXCHANGE  29 

His  hair  had  only  just  begun  to  get  a  little  gray. 
His  complexion  was  pale,  but  it  had  been  tanned 
by  hot  suns  and  seemed  clear  and  healthy.  His 
eyes  were  thoughtful  gray  eyes — quite  out  of 
keeping  with  the  active  look  of  the  man.  His 
best  point  was  his  simple  directness ;  he  could 
do  right  things,  even  when  they  were  not  easy, 
without  thinking  of  them  at  the  time  or  after- 
ward. His  worst  point  was  his  temper,  which 
broke  loose  occasionally.  At  the  present  mo- 
ment he  was  thinking  about  himself,  which 
was  not  a  usual  occurrence  with  Major  Gunni- 
cal,  and  his  thoughts  were  depressing;  so  he 
tried  to  dismiss  them.  "  It's  all  nervousness  and 
too  much  tobacco, "  he  thought  to  himself ;  "  but 
I  will  go  up  to  town  to-morrow  and  let  old 
Peterson  prescribe  for  me.  I  shall  be  all  right 
in  a  day — probably  only  liver — no  exercise, 
thanks  to  this  cursed  frost.  Oh,  yes,  it's  just 
liver — nothing  else." 

He  paused  once  when  he  was  fastening  his 
collar,  and  said  slowly  and  distinctly,  "Damn 
presentiments."  But  he  was  not  able  to  shake 
off  a  feeling  of  quietness :  a  desire  to  be  at  peace 
with  men  and  a  tendency  to  look  at  the  sad 
side  of  things.  When  he  got  downstairs  he 
found  only  one  man  already  in  the  drawing- 
room — a  man  called  Kenneth,  who  wrote. 
Now  there  was  a  certain  disagreement  between 
Kenneth  and  the  major.  In  the  smoking-room 


30  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

the  night  before,  the  major  had  expressed  his 
sincere  admiration  for  a  certain  story  of  soldier 
life  by  a  new  writer,  and  Kenneth  had  ex- 
plained to  him  that  this  admiration  was 
wrong,  because  the  story  was  not  at  all  well 
constructed. 

"I  own,"  he  had  said,  "that  it  takes  a  critic 
to  see  the  faults  of  the  technique."  This  was  a 
little  vain  of  Kenneth.  "Yes,"  said  the  major 
hotly,  "  and  it  takes  a  man  to  feel  the  merits  of 
the  story."  This  was  a  little  rude  of  the  major, 
for  Kenneth  was  obviously  an  effeminate  person. 
Kenneth  put  up  his  eye-glasses  and  looked  at 
the  major  curiously.  "  Don't  be  so  damnably 
affected,"  said  the  major.  Then  Sir  Charles 
had  interposed  lazily. 

Consequently,  when  the  major  entered  the 
drawing-room  Kenneth  at  once  began  to  assume 
more  dignity  than  Providence  had  made  him 
able  to  carry  easily.  The  major  walked  up  to 
him  and  held  out  one  hand.  "  Look  here,  Ken- 
neth," he  said,  "I'm  an  old  fool,  and  always 
thinking  I  know  another  man's  business  as  well 
as  my  own.  I'd  no  right  to  question  your 
opinion  last  night  and  make  an  angry  ass  of 
myself.  I'm  sorry."  Kenneth's  dignity  came 
down  heavily,  and  he  took  the  major's  hand  at 
once.  For  a  fortnight  he  loved  him,  and  then 
he  told  publicly  the  story  of  how  he  had  gone 
to  the  major  and  forced  him  to  apologize.  For 


EXCHANGE  31 

there  is  a  combination  of  imagination  and  van- 
ity which  nothing  —  not  even  kindness — can 
kill. 

The  major  was  very  dull  at  dinner,  but  when 
his  host's  two  children  came  in  afterward,  they 
seemed  to  find  him  very  satisfactory.  The 
major  loved  children.  He  did  not  stop  very 
long  in  the  smoking-room  that  night.  He 
wanted  badly  to  be  alone. 

For  some  time  after  he  had  gone  to  bed  he 
lay  awake  thinking.  Maude,  his  host's  elder 
daughter,  reminded  him  in  appearance  of  his 
own  niece  Doris.  It  seemed  hard  that  Maude 
should  be  so  bright  and  happy,  and  that  Doris 
— owing  to  a  skating  accident — should  be  con- 
demned to  lose  all  her  brightness,  and  her  flow 
of  talk,  and  her  power  to  understand.  Yet 
Doris  never  seemed  actually  unhappy ;  her  eyes 
were  vacant,  as  if  the  light  behind  them  had 
gone  out,  but  she  did  not  seem  to  be  suffering. 
During  the  first  part  of  her  illness  she  had  bab- 
bled about  some  woman,  an  old  woman  dressed 
in  scarlet,  who  frightened  her. 

Thus  thinking,  the  major  fell  asleep.  It  was 
long  past  midnight  when  he  opened  his  eyes 
and  saw  a  figure  of  a  woman  standing  on  the 
hearth-rug,  and  stretching  yellow  hands  like 
claws  toward  the  remnant  of  the  fire.  It  startled 
him,  but  he  did  not  want  to  wake  up  the  rest  of 
the  house. 


32  STORIES  AND  INTERLUDES 

"What  are  you  doing  in  my  room?  "  he  said 
in  a  rapid  whisper. 

The  old  woman  turned  round.  He  could 
hardly  see  her  face,  but  the  flicker  of  the  fire 
showed  him  that  she  was  dressed  in  rags  of 
faded  scarlet.  Her  voice  was  very  gentle  and 
low. 

"Awake?  Are  you  awake?  I  made  a  little 
noise  to  wake  you  on  purpose.  But  generally 
they  go  on  sleeping  when  I  come.  I  am  the 
scarlet  woman  of  whom  Doris  spoke.  She  has 
been  taken." 

"Dead?    A  merciful  deliverance." 

"  No,  she  is  not  delivered  yet.  She  has  to  go 
through  life  again  in  a  lower  form  before  she  is 
delivered.  I  hate  her.  I  will  see  that  she  is 
unhappy  again  before  she  is  delivered." 

"Why  does  this  all  seem  real  instead  of 
seeming  fantastic  and  absurd  —  as  it  ought 
to?" 

"  Because  it  is  real ;  but  they  always  ask  me 
that,  all  those  who  see  me.  Doris  shall  become 
a  caged  bird,  I  think — one  of  those  who  are 
driven  nearly  mad  by  captivity  and  yet  are  so 
strong  that  they  die  slowly." 

"You  can't  do  that,"  said  the  major  quickly. 

"You  know  I  can,  and  you  know  I  shall," 
replied  the  old  woman  in  the  same  soft  whisper. 
"  I  need  not  argue,  or  prove,  or  do  anything  of 
that  kind.  When  I  speak  men  know  that  all  is 


EXCHANGE  33 

as  I  say;  but  they  do  not  often  hear  me,  be- 
cause they  are  nearly  always  asleep  when  I 
come." 

"  Where  is  Doris  now?  " 

"  She  waits  in  dreamland,  where  nothing  is 
real,  until  I  get  my  opportunity,  and  she  is 
born  once  more,  and  caught,  and  caged,  and 
tortured." 

As  she  said  this  she  seemed  to  grow  a  little 
more  excited ;  and,  as  if  in  sympathy  with  her, 
the  fire  suddenly  burned  up  more  brightly,  and 
showed  her  horrible,  lean  face,  and  deep,  leer- 
ing eyes. 

"That's  cruel,"  said  the  major.  "And  what 
shall  I  be  when  I  die?  " 

"You  will  not  have  a  bad  time,"  she  said, 
grinning.  "You  shall  be  a  dear  little  white 
lamb  that  lives  an  hour  and  then  is  delivered. 
You  will  die  to-night,  by  the  way.  But  Doris 
shall  beat  her  heart  out  against  bars,  because  I 
hate  her.  You  will  see  one  another  in  dream- 
land, while  you  are  waiting  until  I  get  the  two 
right  opportunities." 

An  idea  occurred  to  the  major.  "  Change  us, 
Doris  and  myself." 

The  old  woman  trembled  with  agitation,  and 
her  voice  rose  shrilly.  "  I  will  not !  I  will  not ! " 
she  cried. 

But  something  bright  and  sure,  like  a  steady 
light,  seemed  to  fill  the  man's  mind.  "  But  you 
3 


34  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

will — you  cannot  help  it,"  he  answered  very 
quietly. 

The  old  woman  strode  quickly  across  the 
room,  her  face  aflame  with  rage,  and  touched 
him  on  the  heart.  He  fell  backward,  and  did 
not  speak  any  more. 

"  I  must  always  come  when  they  are  asleep 
in  future,"  said  the  old  woman,  as  she  went 
back  to  the  fire.  "  It  is  too  much  to  risk — I 
have  lost  by  Doris  and  this  man."  There  was  a 
long  pause.  "  But  I  will  torture  him  even  more 
than  I  would  have  tortured  Doris,"  she  whis- 
pered gently  to  the  fire. 

Two  months  afterward  a  white  lamb  was 
born,  in  a  sheltered  place,  on  a  grassy  fell.  And 
in  an  hour  it  died. 

And  on  the  same  day  a  certain  bird-catcher, 
resident  in  Whitechapel,  went  out  early  and 
had  luck. 

3— DORIS  IN  THE  HEREAFTER 

THE  release  had  come  at  last.  To  Doris  it 
was  an  exquisite  release;  the  years  spent  in 
darkness  were  over ;  the  short,  mystical  period 
which  followed  her  death  was  over;  her  spirit 
went  out  into  the  moonlit  night — white,  naked, 
beautiful.  She  could  remember  but  little  con- 
sciously of  her  earth-life.  She  had  suffered — 


EXCHANGE  35 

she  could  recollect  that,  and  she  had  spoken 
with  a  grim  woman — an  old  woman  dressed  in 
rags  of  faded  scarlet.  She  did  not  recollect 
what  had  been  said,  but  she  knew  that  it  had 
been  the  beginning  of  the  darkness  which  had 
fallen  on  her  mind.  Of  her  death  she  knew 
nothing ;  of  a  short  strange  time  after  her  death 
she  knew  a  little,  dimly  and  vaguely. 

She  was  free,  and  it  was  enough  for  her.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  still  kept  the  body  which 
had  been  called  Doris  during  its  earth-life,  but 
that  now  it  was  light  as  the  air,  stronger  than 
before,  and  far  more  beautiful.  She  stood,  a 
childish  figure,  graceful  and  erect,  on  a  shred 
of  dark  cloud  which  a  steady  night  wind  blew 
past  the  hill-tops  and  over  the  valley.  Below 
her  she  could  see  the  flooded  river,  angry  with 
its  old  stone  bridges,  crying  itself  to  sleep  in 
long,  still  reaches,  with  the  mists  rising  white 
all  about  it.  She  saw,  too,  much  that  the  living 
do  not  see.  In  a  lonely  cottage,  low  and  roughly 
built,  some  young  spring  flowers  had  just  died; 
she  saw  their  souls — their  fragrance,  as  she  had 
been  used  to  call  it — pass  upward ;  and  as  they 
passed  they  changed  and  became  a  handful  of 
ghost-lilies  in  the  garden-land  of  dreams.  And 
all  night  long  she  went  on  her  way,  seeing 
beautiful  things.  She  could  never  be  tired  any 
more ;  and  the  rain  and  the  dew  did  not  hurt 
her ;  and  the  cold  wind  did  not  seem  cold  to  her. 


36  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

And  when  the  morning  came,  a  little  baby 
breeze  came  up  to  her  with  a  message.  It  was 
so  young  and  forgetful  that  it  had  not  got  the 
exact  words  of  the  message.  But  it  remem- 
bered the  drift  of  it.  "  He  said  you  were  to  go 
and  look  for  sorrows,"  it  whispered  in  her  ear. 
It  lingered  for  a  moment,  playing  with  her 
hair,  and  then  it  went  down  below  and  tried  to 
blow  a  dandelion  clock.  And  not  being  strong 
enough,  it  sat  down  and  sulked ;  for  it  had  not 
yet  learned  that  the  only  things  worth  doing  are 
the  things  one  cannot  do. 

Then  Doris  went  on  about  her  work,  very 
happy,  singing  little  songs  that  she  remembered. 
And  first  of  all  she  went  to  a  great  house  where 
a  proud  and  beautiful  lady  lived.  But  the 
proud  lady  sat  huddled  up  and  quite  undignified 
in  her  own  room,  crying  till  her  nose  was  red 
and  she  was  not  pleasant  to  see.  And  all  be- 
cause some  one  or  other — I  think  it  was  her 
husband — was  dead,  and  was  going  to  be  for- 
ever happy!  Doris  laughed  contemptuously, 
and  passed  on. 

She  next  went  to  a  nursery  where  there  was 
a  little  freckled  girl  with  sandy  hair.  And  the 
little  girl  was  unhappy  because  of  a  bad  acci- 
dent to  a  ninepenny  doll,  which  was  her  most 
intimate  friend.  There  was  a  small  hole  in  the 
doll's  neck  and  a  possible  escape  of  sawdust.  It 
was  only  by  holding  the  doll  wrong  way  up  and 


EXCHANGE  37 

shaking  it  that  you  could  make  the  sawdust 
come  out ;  and  the  little  girl  did  not  want  the 
sawdust  to  come  out  at  all,  for  it  caused  her 
agony  when  it  came  out ;  and  yet  she  held  the 
doll  upside  down  and  shook  it.  For  this  was 
the  kind  of  girl  that,  when  she  grows  up,  be- 
comes a  woman.  Doris  was  sorry  for  her, 
and  whispered  in  her  ear,  "  You  had  better  get 
a  little  piece  of  stamp-paper  and  stick  it  over 
the  hole  in  the  doll's  neck — but  it  won't  last 
long. "  The  child  thought  Doris  was  a  beauti- 
ful idea,  and  went  radiantly  to  the  study  and 
opened  the  despatch-box.  There  was  no  stamp- 
paper.  There  was  one  penny  stamp,  and  she 
knew  that  it  was  wicked  to  take  it.  So  she 
compromised — which  was  feminine  of  her — 
and  tore  the  stamp  in  two  and  only  took  half  of  it. 
Then  she  went  back  to  the  nursery,  and  fixed 
the  half-stamp  as  Doris  had  suggested.  Doris, 
who  had  watched  her,  was  horrified.  "You 
ought  not  to  have  taken  that  stamp,"  she  said 
to  her.  "  You  had  better  confess  what  you  have 
done,  and  say  that  you  do  not  wish  to  tell  a  lie. " 
Then  the  little  girl  supposed  Doris  was  con- 
science— for,  of  course,  Doris  was  invisible — 
and  did  not  think  quite  so  much  of  her.  Neither 
did  she  confess.  Doris  was  not  very  unhappy 
about  it,  knowing  that  children  are  always  for- 
given and  occasionally  forgotten. 

She  saw  many  other  sorrows  and  she  thought 


38  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

very  little  of  them.  People,  she  perceived, 
always  exaggerated  the  importance  of  death, 
and  money,  and  love.  Yet  she  saw  a  wind — a 
venomous  wind — snap  the  stalk  of  the  very 
loveliest  daffodil,  and  nobody  wore  black  clothes 
for  it,  or  had  sherry-and-biscuits,  or  showed  any 
of  the  signs  of  sorrow.  She  had  only  been  for 
a  few  hours  in  the  Hereafter,  and  yet  she 
already  felt  herself  to  be  out  of  touch  with 
humanity. 

And  it  happened  that  she  came  to  a  great 
dirty  city,  and  she  stopped  where  a  cage  of 
wicker-work  was  hung  outside  a  grimy  shop 
in  a  grimy  street.  There  were  several  things 
in  the  cage :  a  yellow  glass  for  water  with  no 
water  in  it ;  a  blue  glass  for  seed  with  no  seed 
in  it;  something  which  had  once  been  a  turf 
and  now  looked  like  a  badly  cooked  brick ;  and 
something  which  panted  on  the  floor  of  the  cage 
in  the  corner — it  was  all  that  was  left  of  a  bird, 
a  soaring  bird  that  loved  the  upper  air  and  the 
sunlight,  but  was  now  reduced  to  plain  dying 
and  high  thinking.  Now  none  of  the  other  sor- 
rowful persons  had  seen  Doris;  but  the  bird 
saw  her  and  called  to  her,  but  she  did  not  un- 
derstand the  language.  She  went  into  the 
shop  and  whispered  to  the  man  in  charge, 
"Your  bird  outside  wants  attention;  it's  ill." 

"  Bless  my  soul !  and  I  gave  a  shilling  for  it ! " 
So  he  took  the  bird  some  water  and  something 


EXCHANGE  39 

to  eat  which  was  not  good  for  it.  The  bird 
chirped.  "  It  knows  me  and  loves  me  already," 
said  the  man.  It  was  really  saying,  "  Would 
you  kindly  wring  my  neck,  and  end  this?  " 

"I  am  sorry  for  it,"  said  Doris,  as  she  passed 
on.  "I  am  glad  I  was  never  a  pet."  She 
would  have  been  more  sorry  if  she  had  known 
all  the  history  of  that  bird. 


A  MAN  AND  A  GOD 


I  HUNGER  and  am  not  satisfied  :  . 

Because  I  am  small,  and  the  world  is  wide  ; 

And  the  world  is  one,  and  the  stars  are  sand, 

Flung  right  out  by  a  careless  hand 

Into  the  darkness  to  slide  and  slide  ; 

And  all  the  darkness  is  one  small  blot 

That  He  who  made  it  regardeth  not. 

He  hath  nor  sorrow,  nor  joy,  nor  pride, 

And  His  face  is  set  as  it  were  of  stone  ; 

He  worked,  and  he  letteth  the  work  alone  ; 

And  none  are  above  Him  and  none  beside. 

The  dead  leaf  blown  from  the  dying  tree, 

The  great  ship  wrecked  in  a  cruel  sea, 

The  creeping  things  that  the  cart-wheels  crush, 

The  ruined  star  in  its  downward  rush  — 

Alike  to  Him  all  these  things  be, 

And  the  darkness  is  as  the  day's  full  light, 

Ever  and  ever,  by  day  and  night, 

He  sits  alone,  and  His  great  eyes  see 

A  million  worlds  in  their  courses  turn  ; 

Yet  like  a  flame  the  deep  looks  burn 

Even  in  this  small  heart  of  me. 


A   MAN   AND    A   GOD  41 

He  thought  me,  and  He  let  me  go ; 

He  thought  a  man  and  it  was  so. 

For  He  thinketh  all  and  there  liveth  naught 

That  came  not  first  from  out  God's  thought; 

Then  we  are  left — to  die  or  grow, 

He  has  forgotten  us  all  by  now, 

And  stony  swoon  on  His  stony  brow 

Lies,  and  His  breath  is  strong  and  slow. 

He  sees,  and  recks  not  what  He  sees, 

And  never  it  moveth  His  frozen  ease 

That  we  cry,  and  die,  and  rot  below. 

Yet  the  far  hills,  that  snow  makes  white, 
Stretch  Godward,  longing  for  His  light; 
And  all  last  night  the  winds  outpoured 
Their  rhythmic  Glory  to  the  Lord— 
I  listened  longingly  last  night. 
We  hunger  and  are  not  satisfied ; 
All  the  worlds  and  the  darkness  wide, 
Every  depth  and  every  height, 
Longing  to  be  in  God  again. 
And  hunger  is  hunger,  and  longing  vain, 
And  man  is  nothing,  and  God  is  right. 


Ill 

RURAL  SIMPLICITY 

1— A  LETTER  FROM  Miss  MILLJCENT  MARSHE,  OF 
CARLESTON  RECTORY,  TO  Miss  CLARA  ORMRY,  OF  THE 
LAWN,  LOWANSTANTON,  SEPTEMBER  2D 

MY  DEAREST  CLARA  : — I  am  going  to  write 
you  a  long  letter.  There  is  just  a  little  news  to 
tell  you,  and  I  want  to  talk  about  something  I 
could  not  possibly  discuss  with  any  one  else. 
You  are  only  a  few  years  older  than  I  am,  and 
yet  you  know  so  much  more  about  things.  I 
feel  sure  that  if  you  advise  me  at  all,  you  will 
advise  me  well.  You  have  read  so  many  more 
novels  and  stories  than  I  have,  that  you  under- 
stand human  nature  much  better.  And  you  are 
so  sympathetic  too.  I  have  often  thought  it 
very  sad  that  at  the  age  of  twenty-five  you 
should  have  decided  that  you  can  never  love 
again ;  but  I  know  that  you  do  take  the  warm- 
est and  deepest  interest  in  the  love-stories  of 
others,  and  there  is  no  one  to  whom  I  could 
more  readily  tell  all  the  secrets  of  my  heart. 
You  must  not  imagine  that  I  have  any  love- 
story  or  any  secrets  of  that  kind  to  tell  you  now. 


RURAL,  SIMPLICITY  43 

On  the  contrary,  I  have  just  realized  that  you 
are  quite  right  about  my  cousin  Tom,  and  that 
I  can  never,  never  love  him  at  all.  Every 
word  that  you  said  about  him  was  true :  mere 
good  looks,  good  nature,  and  a  partiality  for 
athletics  are  not  enough ;  I  can  see  now  how 
right  you  were  when  you  told  me  that  "  one 
wants  the  wonderful  insight  and  sympathy  that 
can  understand  the  delicacies  and  simplicities 
of  a  young  girl's  soul" — I  think  that  is  the 
most  beautiful  sentence  in  your  last  dear  letter. 
And  it  is  so  true !  It  is  just  a  little  difficult  for 
me,  because  Tom  is  living  at  the  rectory  until 
he  goes  up  to  Cambridge  in  October,  and  al- 
though he  spends  a  good  deal  of  his  time  in 
the  study  with  papa,  working  for  his  examina- 
tion, he  does  get  a  good  many  opportunities  of 
seeing  me.  He  really  behaves  just  as  if  I  had 
encouraged  him ;  and  he  seems  almost  to  expect 
me  to  fall  in  love  with  him.  I  like  him  well 
enough,  but  it  would  be  absurd  to  think  about 
loving  him.  I  did  that  only  before  I  had  the 
benefit  of  your  wise  advice,  my  dear  Clara. 

And  now  I  must  tell  you  a  little  news.  Do 
you  remember  how  you  used  to  rave  about "  The 
Long  Dream"?  Of  course  you  do,  because  in 
your  last  letter  you  speak  of  the  book  again,  and 
say  what  a  consolation  it  has  been  to  you  in 
your  great  trouble.  You  give  me,  too,  a  sketch 
of  what  you  imagine  the  author,  Mr.  Merle, 


44  STORIES   AND    INTERLUDES 

must  be  like.  What  will  you  say  when  I  tell 
you  that  for  the  last  fortnight  Mr.  Merle  has 
been  living  at  Carleston,  and  that  I  have  seen 
him  constantly?  It's  true.  Oh ! 

You  were  not  quite  right  in  your  imaginary 
description  of  him.  You  said  that  you  thought 
the  author  of  "  The  Long  Dream"  would  be  "  tall 
and  dark,  with  flashing  eyes  and  a  complexion 
like  cream  with  the  faintest  suspicion  of  coffee 
in  it."  He  really  has  rather  a  roundish  face, 
a  fresh  color,  and  fair  hair  which  is  generally 
rather  untidy.  I  think  his  eyes  are  gray ;  but 
I  have  not  been  near  enough  to  see  properly. 
You  were  quite  right  in  thinking  that  he  would 
be  tall,  however.  What  made  you  guess  that? 
In  dress  he  is  just  like  any  other  man. 

Mr.  Merle's  father  and  mine  were  at  college 
together,  it  turns  out ;  so  naturally  we  have  seen 
a  good  deal  of  him.  He  has  dined  here  twice 
and  been  to  tennis  several  times.  He  plays 
better  than  Tom.  He  has  got  rooms  at  an  old 
farm-house,  and  will  perhaps  stay  for  another 
month,  he  says.  Papa  is  delighted  with  him, 
and  so  is  Aunt  Mary ;  Tom  does  not  like  him 
so  much,  and  says  that  he  is  conceited.  This 
is  utterly  untrue ;  he  is  really  quite  unaffected, 
and  very  good-tempered.  He  does  not  mind 
talking  about  his  books ;  I  told  him  last  night 
that  I  loved  "  The  Long  Dream,"  and  it  seemed 
to  please  him.  Was  I  wrong?  Tom  behaves 


RURAL   SIMPLICITY  45 

very  badly,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  and  cannot  even 
keep  his  temper  when  Mr.  Merle  beats  him  at 
tennis.  I  think  a  boy  of  eighteen  ought  to  know 
better,  and  I  told  him  so.  Then  he  got  angry, 
and  said  a  perfectly  outrageous  thing — a  thing 
for  which  there  is  not  the  slightest  foundation, 
which  no  amount  of  intimacy  could  have  justi- 
fied him  in  saying.  I  would  not  speak  to  him 
all  the  rest  of  that  day ;  and  I  have  now  told 
him  that  if  he  dares  even  to  hint  at  such  a  thing 
again,  I  will  never  speak  to  him  any  more  at  all. 
I  cannot  think  what  has  come  over  poor  Tom 
lately ;  he  used  to  be  all  right,  but  now  he  is 
horrible.  He  seems  to  have  completely  changed 
during  the  last  fortnight.  He  said  the  other 
day  that  Mr.  Merle  was  an  atheist.  I  told  him 
that,  even  if  it  were  true,  such  a  charge  would 
come  very  badly  from  him,  because,  as  you 
know,  on  fine  mornings  Tom  is  rather  given  to 
shirking  church ;  and  I  pointed  out  to  him  that 
Mr.  Merle  had  been  to  church  twice  on  each  of 
the  Sundays  that  he  has  been  here — he  sits  just 
opposite  to  our  pew — and  that  he  must  have 
listened  to  papa's  sermons,  because  he  talked 
to  papa  about  them  afterward.  Tom  had  no 
reason  whatever  to  offer  for  saying  so ;  except 
that  he  had  been  told  that  most  authors  were 
atheists.  I  asked  him  how  about  St.  Paul? 
which  of  course  he  couldn't  answer. 

I  do  wish  that  Tom  could  manage  to  behave 


46  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

a  little  more  as  Charles  Leader,  Mrs.  Leader's 
eldest  son,  did.  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  him  some 
time  ago,  and  he  asked  me  to  marry  him,  you 
know,  shortly  after  Tom's  arrival  here.  He 
had  simply  misunderstood  my  manner  to  him ; 
but  when  I  told  him  his  mistake,  he  never  re- 
proached me  at  all ;  he  has  left  the  village  and 
never  troubled  me  since.  I  wish  Tom  would 
go  away  too.  It  is  so  indelicate  of  him  to  keep 
on  caring  for  me  when  I  have  stopped  caring 
for  him. 

You  must  not  think  that,  when  I  said  Mr. 
Merle's  face  was  roundish,  that  I  meant  it  in  a 
disparaging  way  at  all.  He  is  very  good-look- 
ing; he  has  that  appearance  of  nobility  and 
strength  which  I  so  much  admire  in  a  man. 
He  makes  every  one  like  him,  except  Tom.  I 
wish  I  could  give  you  a  better  idea  of  his  per- 
sonal appearance,  but  there  really  is  no  one  we 
know  who  could  be  compared  with  him  for  a 
moment.  He  likes  music ;  I  sang  two  or  three 
songs  for  him  in  the  drawing-room  the  last 
time  he  dined  here.  He  has  a  strange  way  of 
looking  at  one  sometimes,  as  if  he  were  thirsty. 
It  is  very  interesting  to  talk  to  him;  he  has 
just  come  from  London,  you  see,  and  has  heaps 
of  things  to  tell  us.  One  hears  so  little  in  this 
benighted  village.  We  are  going  to  have  tea 
at  his  rooms  in  the  farm-house  this  afternoon, 
which  will  be  splendid.  Tom  says  he  shall  not 


RURAL   SIMPLICITY  47 

go.  I  shall  meet  him  again  in  the  evening  at 
Mrs.  Leader's.  Please  write  soon  to  me,  dearest 
Clara,  and  tell  me  what  to  do. 

Ever  your  most  loving  friend, 

MILLICENT  MARSHE. 

P.  S.  — His  other  names  are  Cecil  Vanstoun. 
He  only  puts  the  initials,  you  know,  on  the 
title-page  of  his  book.  I  forgot  to  say  that  I 
think  Hike  him  very  much — very  much  indeed. 
I  have  begun  to  keep  a  diary ;  you  suggested  it 
some  time  ago. 

2— A  LETTER  FROM  CECIL  VANSTOUN  MERLE  TO  JOHN 
DUNHAM,  FELLOW  OF  SIDNEY  COLLEGE,  CAMBRIDGE, 
SEPTEMBER  3D 

DEAR  JACK: — No,  I  am  not  going  to  give 
you  a  humorous  and  epigrammatic  account  of 
the  aborigines  of  Carleston,  and  the  way  they 
treat  the  unusual  apparition  of  a  live  Londoner. 
That  kind  of  thing  has  been  done  too  often 
and  too  badly.  Besides,  I  may  possibly  be  an 
author,  but  I  am  certainly  a  man  of  business. 
I  couldn't  send  you,  free,  in  a  letter  that  which 
might  be  printed  and  purchased.  It  would 
offend  your  natural  delicacy;  at  any  rate  it 
ought  to ;  I  might  as  well  send  you  a  couple  of 
guineas  at  once  as  amusement  to  that  amount. 
And  lastly,  what  is  the  use  of  a  friend  if  we  may 
not  be  very  dull  with  him  ?  We  keep  our  brill- 
iant side  for  the  comparative  stranger,  or  sell 


48  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

it  to  the  positive  editor ;  we  use  it  to  make  an 
impression  or  a  livelihood;  we  don't  waste  it  on 
friends. 

Well,  as  you  know,  I  came  down  here  from 
London  about  a  fortnight  ago,  sick  of  the  sea- 
son, overworked,  eagerly  desiring  to  be  alone, 
and  dumb,  and  idle,  and  to  drink  new  milk. 
I  am  already  somewhat  refreshed.  I  have 
drunk  the  new  milk;  I  have  stretched  myself 
on  the  grass  in  the  sun,  and  smoked  many  pipes, 
and  become  an  object  of  derision  to  my  landlady 
by  reason  of  my  laziness ;  I  do  not  think  she  ever 
had  a  lodger  who  did  less  and  enjoyed  it  more ; 
and  if  I  have  not  been  absolutely  dumb,  I  can 
at  least  guarantee  that  I  have  said  nothing 
which  would  be  worth  repetition.  I  like  this 
village;  there's  an  indefinable  air  of  goodness 
and  rural  simplicity  about  it.  My  rooms  are 
not  exactly  artistic,  of  course,  but  everything 
is  spotlessly  clean.  Why  is  bad  Berlin  wool- 
work on  the  sofa  always  accompanied  by  mina- 
tory texts  on  the  walls?  It  is  a  pity  that  you 
restrict  yourself  to  answering  academical  ques- 
tions and  I  restrict  myself  to  asking  the  other 
kind.  The  rooms  do  very  well ;  I  have  imported 
a  good  piano,  which  is  rather  luxurious  of  me, 
I  suppose. 

But  I  have  not  been  alone.  When  I  decided , 
rather  in  a  hurry,  to  take  these  rooms  and  come 
to  Carleston  for  a  couple  of  months  or  so,  I 


RURAL   SIMPLICITY  49 

neglected  to  inquire  who  was  the  village  par- 
son. He  is  the  Rev.  Hubert  Marshe,  and  was 
at  Trinity  with  my  father.  They  were  friends, 
and  consequently  I  have  been  up  to  the  rectory 
a  good  deal.  He  is  a  man  of  some  culture,  has 
a  touch  of  bibliomania,  is  gentle  in  everything 
but  his  orthodoxy,  and  is  really  loved  by  every 
one  in  the  village.  His  wife  died  six  years 
ago,  and  an  unmarried  sister,  Mary  Marshe, 
keeps  house  for  him.  She  is  rather  a  prim  old 
lady,  and  insists  on  all  the  small  points,  but  she 
has  as  sweet  a  disposition  as  her  brother.  A 
nephew  of  his  is  stopping  in  the  house,  and  is 
supposed  to  be  reading  for  the  little-go  with  the 
rector.  He  seems  to  occupy  most  of  his  time 
with  adoring  the  rector's  only  child  Millicent, 
a  girl  of  seventeen.  He  himself  is  not  a  bad 
fellow  altogether,  but  rather  a  cub.  Cambridge 
will  improve  him. 

I  went  to  dine  last  night  with  a  Mrs.  Leader, 
a  widow  who  has  a  big  house  here,  but  who 
formerly  lived  in  Cornwall.  I  had  met  her  at 
the  rectory.  By  the  way,  whenever  the  rector's 
nephew,  Tom,  gets  very  angry  with  the  rector's 
daughter,  Millicent — which  happens  sometimes, 
because  he  is  as  unreasonable  as  most  adorers — 
he  always  talks  to  her  about  this  Mrs.  Leader's 
elder  son,  who  is  now  away  from  home.  He 
does  this  simply  to  annoy  her — a  fact  which  I 
had  in  my  mind  when  I  said  he  was  rather  a 
4 


50  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

cub.  However,  that's  none  of  my  business.  It 
was  rather  a  pleasant  dinner.  Mrs.  Leader  has 
that  shade  of  gentle  Puritanism  in  her  which 
one  still  finds  occasionally  in  the  inhabitants  of 
English  villages.  It  is  the  old  Puritanism  with 
charity  added.  She  is  hard  on  herself  and  in- 
dulgent to  the  rest  of  the  world.  There  are 
some  good  people  still  alive,  my  dear  Jack,  but 
one  does  not  as  a  rule  meet  them  in  London. 
For  real  goodness  and  simplicity  one  must  come 
to  the  country.  I  had  a  long  talk  with  Mrs. 
Leader  about  her  elder  son  Charles,  whom  she 
worships,  and,  curiously  enough,  I  had  another 
talk  with  Miss  Marshe  on  the  same  subject  later 
in  the  evening.  She  implied,  in  that  vague  and 
delicate  way  which  comes  to  girls  by  instinct, 
that  Charles  Leader  had  asked  her  to  marry 
him,  and  that  she  had  refused  him.  She  did 
not  say  either  of  these  things  directly,  but  she 
talked  as  if  I  knew  them,  until  I  actually  did 
know  them,  and  altogether — well,  I  am  going 
to  stop  these  uninteresting  details  and  come  to 
the  main  point.  I  had  not  meant  to  tell  you, 
but  I  find  that  I  must.  You  may  have  guessed 
it  already — you  are  rather  clever  at  such  things. 
I  take  back  all  that  I  have  ever  said  about 
women.  I  had  never  met  the  perfect  woman 
before,  but  I  have  met  her  now.  I  love  Milli- 
cent  Marshe,  and  I  am  going  to  ask  her  to 
marry  me. 


RURAL   SIMPLICITY  51 

At  least,  I  am  not  sure  whether  I  shall  ask 
her  to  marry  me  or  not.  I  am  not  yet  sure 
whether  she  cares  for  her  cousin  Tom.  I  rather 
gathered  from  a  hint  that  her  aunt  let  fall  that 
a  marriage  between  these  two  was  not  unlikely. 
If  she  really  cares  for  Tom,  of  course  I  shall  not 
annoy  her  by  my  interference.  You  must  not 
misunderstand  me  when  I  say  that  she  is  per- 
fect. I  do  not  mean  that  her  attainments — her 
intellectual  attainments — are  better  than  those 
of  all  other  women.  I  have  not  entirely  lost 
my  critical  faculty.  I  can  see,  for  instance, 
that  her  playing  is  slipshod,  and  her  singing 
only  shows  the  average  drawing-room  quality. 
Very  likely  she  was  not  well  taught.  What  I 
meant  rather  was  that  she  was  quite  unspoiled. 
I  feel  sure  that  she  has  never  given  one  senti- 
mental thought  to  a  man  in  her  life.  There  are 
girls  in  town  who  have  a  hideous  practice  of 
writing  morbid  confidences  to  each  other  about 
men  they  have  met.  She  would  never  do  that. 
She  is  quite  incapable,  too,  of  fickleness.  She 
will  love  once  and  love  always.  But  at  present 
she  has  never  thought  of  love  and  marriage. 
She  is  the  perfect,  virginal  type — fresh  and  un- 
tainted as  a  fragrant  wild- flower  in  one  of  the 
hedge-rows  here ;  and  yet  a  strange,  unconscious, 
delicate  instinct  keeps  her  from  all  mistakes — 
she  would  never  let  a  man  believe  that  she 
cared  for  him  if  she  did  not.  This  Charles 


52  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

Leader,  who,  I  have  told  you,  asked  her  to 
marry  him,  must  have  been  an  idiot  to  have 
thought  that  he  had  a  chance.  She  would  never 
lead  a  man  on  unless  she  meant  to  marry  him. 
She  has  lived  all  her  days  in  this  country  vil- 
lage, far  away  from  the  vulgar  flirtations  and 
sickly  sentimentalities  of  London.  She  is  a 
white  soul,  framed  in  a  lovely  body.  I  could 
write  pages  about  her  beauty,  Jack,  but  I  fear 
you  would  only  laugh  at  me.  She  has  dark 
hair,  and  brown,  faithful  eyes,  and  a  young 
rosebud  of  a  mouth  that — what  am  I  doing? — I 
who  have  hated  sentimentality  all  my  days ! 
Yes,  you  may  laugh  at  me  as  much  as  you  like. 
I  don't  mind.  I  suppose  it  will  all  be  over 
soon,  for  I  am  afraid  that  it  is  for  Tom,  not  for 
me,  that  she  cares.  I  have  studied  character 
all  my  life,  and  I  do  not  think  I  can  be  mis- 
taken. 

Briefly,  my  plan  is  this.  I  shall  observe  as 
closely  as* possible  during  the  next  few  days. 
If  she  seems  to  favor  Tom,  I  shall  go  away  and 
trouble  her  no  more.  If  she  seems  to  favor  me, 
I  shall  propose  to  her.  I  feel  absolutely  sure 
that  she  would  never  mislead  either  Tom  or 
myself.  You  will  tell  me  that  I  am  wanting 
in  pluck,  but  I  do  not  think  so.  It  would  be 
foolhardiness  to  propose  to  her  if  she  obviously 
cared  for  Tom ;  and  it  would  also  be,  probably, 
very  offensive  to  her.  I  do  not  allow  myself  to 


RURAL  SIMPLICITY  53 

hope  much,  and  yet  at  times  hopes  will  force 
their  way  in,  and  I  picture  happiness. 

That  is  my  plan  of  campaign.  Cambridge 
is  quite  desolate  just  now,  I  suppose.  Why  do 
you  stop?  I  had  a  good  deal  to  tell  you  about 
a  book  that  I  am  planning,  but  I've  taken  up 
all  my  space  with  my  account  of  Millicent 
Marshe.  You  may  be  as  amused  as  you  please, 
but  it's  terribly  serious  with  me,  and  I  have  no 
notion  how  it  will  all  end. 
Ever  yours, 

CECIL  VANSTOUN  MERLE. 

3 — EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  MILLICENT 
MARSHE 

September  3d. — Oh!  oh!  oh!  I  wish  I  could 
understand  myself.  I  wish  I  knew  what  I  was 
doing.  I  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Clara  about  Mr. 
Merle  this  morning.  I  went  to  his  rooms  with 
the  others  this  afternoon.  I  met  him  at  dinner 
this  evening  at  Mrs.  Leader's.  I  am  immensely 
interested  in  him,  but  I  am  not  quite  sure  that 
I  love  him ;  what  is  much  worse  is  that  I  am 
by  no  means  sure  that  he  loves  me.  Tom 
walked  back  with  me  from  the  Leaders'  to  the 
vicarage,  and  I  thought  that  he  did  not  seem  to 
care  for  me  as  much  as  he  once  did.  Of  course, 
that  was  just  what  I  wanted,  for  I  can  never 
marry  Tom ;  but  it  pained  me  to  see  that  he 
could  be  so  fickle  and  forget  so  easily.  So  I 


54  STORTES   AND   INTERLUDES 

made  a  sort  of  appeal  to  his  better  nature,  to  see 
if  he  really  had  forgotten ;  and  now  I  am  afraid 
that  he  will  think  I  was  encouraging  him.  I 
do  not  believe  Charles  Leader  has  ever  forgotten 
me.  I  only  wish  that  he  would,  except  that  it 
would  rather  lessen  my  high  opinion  of  him. 
I  do  so  hate  fickleness.  I  like  simplicity  and 
constancy. 

Mr.  Merle  is  very  brilliant.  He  has  had  a 
piano  sent  down  here  from  London,  and  I  sang 
"  Love's  Rapturous  Sorrow  "  to  him  this  after- 
noon at  his  rooms;  I  thought  that  he  might 
have  thanked  me  rather  more  warmly.  When 
I  had  finished,  Aunt  Mary  asked  him  if  he 
played,  and  he  said  that  he  did,  a  little.  I  was 
rather  surprised  at  this,  because  it  had  never 
occurred  to  me  that  any  men,  except  profes- 
sionals, played  the  piano  at  all.  He  consented 
to  play  at  once  and  asked  me  what  I  should  like. 
I  suggested  the  "Pathetique  Sonata,"  because  I 
can  never  make  the  rondo  go  right,  and  I  wanted 
to  see  if  he  could.  "You're  right,"  he  said,  as 
he  sat  down  at  the  piano.  "The  school-girls 
have  got  at  that  terribly,  but  they  will  never 
make  me  stop  liking  it.  Didn't  you  find  that 
in  the  days  when  you  were  at  school?  "  He  did 
not  wait  for  me  to  reply,  but  began  at  once.  He 
played  it  all  through  without  notes  magnifi- 
cently. He  would  not  play  any  more,  and  he 
would  not  sing,  although  he  confessed  that  he 


RURAL  SIMPLICITY  55 

sang  "a  little."  I  wish  that  I  had  known  all 
this  before  I  sang  those  drawing-room  songs  to 
him.  He  must  have  hated  them,  and  probably 
he  hates  me  in  consequence.  I  think  that  if  he 
had  possessed  perfect  taste  he  would  not  have 
played  quite  so  well — he  would  have  seen  that 
it  was  a  sort  of  reproach  to  me.  Besides,  I 
thought  that  he  had  got  the  piano  simply  for 
my  pleasure,  and  now  it  appears  that  he  got  it 
entirely  for  his  own.  Still  I  do  not  think  that 
he  meant  to  be  selfish.  Men  as  a  rule  have 
very  little  tact.  Yet,  I  don't  know — I  fancy 
that  I  should  not  have  liked  him  so  well  if  he 
had  been  less  brilliant.  I  cannot  help  thinking 
about  the  power  he  holds.  His  book  is  read 
everywhere  and  quoted  everywhere.  It  is  ad- 
mired by  the  very  best  critics,  and  yet  I  am 
almost  sure  that  he  was  pleased  when  I  told  him 
that  I  loved  it.  I  like  to  feel  that  he  can  do 
things  which  are  beyond  other  men,  but  I  do 
wish  he  would  be  a  little — how  shall  I  write  it? 
— a  little  more  decided.  He  leaves  me  uncer- 
tain. 

Charles  Leader  never  did  that.  Whenever  I 
go  to  Mrs.  Leader's  I  always  find  a  certain  train 
of  thoughts — tender  and  sorrowful — start  up  in 
my  brain  about  Charlie,  as  I  called  him  then. 
Charlie  was  always  quite  decided.  But  so 
mistaken !  Tom  never  left  me  in  doubt,  either. 
He's  mistaken,  too. 


56  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

September  4th. — I  have  just  had  a  long  let- 
ter from  my  dear  Clara,  answering  the  letter 
which  I  sent  the  day  before  yesterday.  I  have 
no  notion  how  she  arrived  at  the  conclusion,  but 
this  is  it : 

"  Unconsciously  perhaps,  you  are  very  much 
in  love  with  Cecil  Vanstoun  Merle." 

What  magic  there  is  in  those  words!  I 
think  I  have  read  them  over  a  hundred  times, 
and  it  makes  me  tremble  to  write  them  down. 
I  cannot  imagine  how  she  guessed  it.  She 
must  have  great  insight  in  these  things,  or  she 
would  never  have  discovered  my  feelings  from 
my  letter.  I  had  hardly  guessed  them  myself. 
Well,  this  is  my  own  diary,  and  no  one  but  my- 
self will  ever  read  it ;  so  I  will  write  down  my 
confession.  I  love  Cecil  Vanstoun  Merle.  I 
love  him  more  than  any  one  or  anything  in  the 
whole  world.  I  could  never,  never,  never  love 
any  one  else.  And  he  has  not  yet  shown  me 
plainly  that  he  loves  me.  Consequently,  I  have 
no  right  to  love  him. 

I  won't  love  him. 

I  can't  help  loving  him. 

I  should  like  just  to  sit  down  and  cry  forever 
and  ever.  I  am  very  unhappy.  And  yet  I  am 
not  sure  that  I  shall  not  in  the  end  be  very 
happy  indeed,  if  I  only  follow  the  plan  which 
dear  Clara  has  made  out  for  me — the  plan  of 
campaign,  she  calls  it.  She  is  so  wise,  and 


RURAL   SIMPLICITY  57 

she  has  had  experience.  This  is  what  she 
says: 

"  You  know,  my  dear  Millicent,  that  I  myself 
have  loved  and  lost.  I  was  then  in  the  first 
bloom  of  my  girlhood,  young,  guileless,  tender- 
hearted, beautiful,  some  said.  I  never  attempt- 
ed to  conceal  my  passion,  and  that  ivas  why  I 
lost  him.  Men  only  care  to  win  what  is  difficult 
to  win.  Especially  is  this  the  case  with  men  of 
the  bold  and  intensely  masculine  physique  that 
you  describe  in  Cecil  Merle.  An  obstacle  is  an 
allurement  to  such  men.  I  am  convinced  that 
if  you  show  Cecil  Merle  that  you  care  for  him, 
he  will  at  once  lose  any  love  that  he  may  have 
for  you.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  you  show  a 
marked  preference  for  your  cousin,  and  if  Cecil 
cares  in  the  least  degree  for  you  now,  he  will 
care  a  thousandfold  more  then,  and  you  may 
count  on  a  proposal  from  him  before  he  leaves 
Carleston.  Besides,  this  is  the  only  truly 
maidenly  course  to  pursue;  my  own  conduct 
was  unwise.  I  was  blinded  by  love,  and  I  have 
paid  the  debt  in  a  life-long  sorrow." 

I  almost  think  that  she  is  right.  There  may, 
perhaps,  be  a  little  difficulty  with  Tom.  A  very 
little  encouragement  always  encourages  Tom  so 
very  much.  He  may  not  see  the  true  motives 
for  my  conduct ;  and  even  if  he  saw  them  he 
might  be  selfish.  Of  course,  if  he  really  loved 
me,  it  would  be  a  pleasure  to  him  to  add  to  my 


58  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

happiness ;  and  he  would  be  adding  to  my  hap- 
piness if  he  helped  me  to  win  Mr.  Merle — I  mean 
if  he  helped  to  give  Mr.  Merle  an  opportunity 
of  winning  me.  Perhaps  that  is  the  way  that 
I  ought  to  look  at  it.  Besides,  as  Clara  points 
out,  if  Tom  presumes  too  far,  I  can  always  tell 
him  that  he  is  insulting  me.  Yes,  I  must  for  a 
few  days  try  Clara's  plan,  and  pretend  to  be 
fond  of  Tom.  I  can  always  alter  the  plan  if  I 
find  that  it  does  not  succeed.  I  must  see  what 
effect  it  has  on  Mr.  Merle. 

Only,  because  I  love  him  so  much,  I  shall 
always  call  him  Cecil  in  future  in  these  secret 
pages  of  my  diary.  I  know  that  if  I  let  him 
see  that  I  loved  him  he  would  hate  me.  And 
if  he  hated  me,  I  should  die.  Clara  is  quite 
right  about  his  boldness,  and  I  feel  sure  that 
with  him  an  obstacle  would  prove  an  allure- 
ment. If  it  makes  him  declare  his — ah,  I  can't 
write  it!  He  is  coming  to  dinner  to-morrow 
night,  and  I  will  write  again  then. 

September  5th. — I  have  just  come  up  from 
the  drawing-room.  I  talked  to  Tom  most  of 
dinner-time,  and  I  played  the  accompaniments 
to  Tom's  songs.  I  told  him  that  I  should  have 
"  The  Devout  Lover  "  ringing  in  my  head  all 
night.  Afterward  I  talked  to  Cecil — chiefly 
about  Tom's  prospects  at  Cambridge.  I  watched 
most  anxiously  to  see  what  effect  this  had  on 
Cecil.  I  could  not  discover  that  it  had  any 


RURAL   SIMPLICITY  59 

effect  at  all ;  he  does  not  let  one  see  very  easily 
what  his  feelings  are.  He  ought  to,  I  think. 
Tom,  however,  was  very  much  elated ;  I  thought 
he  would  never  let  go  of  my  hand  when  he  said 
good-night.  This  is  unfortunate,  but  I  must  go 
on  with  the  plan  a  little  longer,  until  I  see 
things  more  clearly. 

When  one  sees  the  two  men  together,  one 
cannot  help  noticing  Cecil's  distinct  superiority. 
He  is  really  god-like,  far  beyond  all  other  men. 
Charles  Leader  appealed  to  me  to  some  extent ; 
my  friendship  for  him  was  invested  with  a  cer- 
tain sentiment.  I  was  a  simple  country  girl, 
and  I  was  misled  at  the  time  by  my  feelings. 
When  Tom  came,  he  appealed  to  me  far  more, 
but  although  I  have  always  tried  to  be  kind  to 
him,  I  can  see  now  that  I  never  loved  him. 
Cecil,  on  the  other  hand,  does  not  exactly  appeal 
to  me ;  he  masters  me,  absorbs  me.  To  see  him 
is  joy  unspeakable ;  to  think  of  him  is  the  rapt- 
ure that  almost  tortures.  How  utterly  I  love 
him! 

Something  within  me  seems  to  tell  me  that 
Clara  was  right.  Cecil  is  so  brilliant,  so  bold, 
so  intensely  masculine,  that  the  thought  of  a 
rival  would  add  to  the  ardor  of  his  love ;  I  feel 
that  I  know  his  nature  perfectly ;  he  is  made  to 
conquer,  and  he  would  care  nothing  for  a  victory 
which  involved  no  fighting.  Yes,  for  one  day 
more  I  will  carry  on  the  plan,  and  then  I  will 


60  STORIES   AND    INTERLUDES 

let  him  say  what  he  will  be  dying  to  say.  I 
hope  it  will  be  in  the  conservatory.  It  seems  so 
nice  to  think  of  it  happening  in  a  dim  light, 
among  the  flowers,  and  ferns,  and  things. 

September  7th. — It  does  cut  me  to  the  heart  to 
be  so  cruel  to  Cecil,  and  it  hurts  me  ever  so  much 
more  to  be  so  kind  to  Tom.  But  this  at  any  rate 
will  be  the  last  day  of  it.  I  have  given  the  plan 
every  chance  now,  and  I  do  not  mean  to  conceal 
my  real  feelings  so  completely  for  the  future. 

Mr.  Merle  came  for  tennis  this  afternoon.  I 
made  papa  take  him  off  to  see  our  collection  of 
early  prayer-books.  When  he  came  back  I  had 
managed  to  get  rid  of  Aunt  Mary,  and  was 
seated  in  the  summer-house  alone  with  Tom.  I 
was  distinctly  cold  in  my  manner  to  Cecil,  and 
tried  to  make  him  feel  de  trop.  I  thought  he 
would  be  very  furious ;  but  he  was  not.  He  was 
very  polite,  and  seemed  to  be  very  careful  what 
he  was  saying.  He  left  early.  I  must  get 
ready  for  dinner,  and  have  no  time  to  write  any 
more  now,  but  I  shall  add  a  word  or  two  perhaps 
when  I  come  up  to  bed. 

10.80. — It  is  all  over!  Let  me  set  down  as 
calmly  as  my  despair  will  allow  me  how  every- 
thing happened. 

After  dinner  Tom  suggested  that  I  should  go 
out  with  him  into  the  garden,  as  it  was  cool 
and  pleasant  there.  I  thought  this  would  be 
a  good  opportunity  to  begin  to  let  him  down 


RURAL   SIMPLICITY  61 

easily;  so  I  went  with  him.  But  I  could  not 
let  him  down,  because  he  hardly  spoke;  he 
seemed  strange  in  his  manner,  I  thought.  We 
wandered  into  the  conservatory,  where  it  was 
almost  dark ;  and  then  quite  suddenly  he  put 
his  arm  round  my  waist,  and — kissed  me.  I 
die  with  shame !  How  can  men  be  such  brutes 
— such  gross,  coarse,  unmannerly  brutes!  I 
told  him  that  I  hated  him ;  he  wanted  to  excuse 
himself,  but  I  would  not  listen,  and  hurried 
back  into  the  drawing-room. 

Papa  was  standing  on  the  hearth-rug  with  an 
open  letter  in  his  hand,  which  he  had  been  read- 
ing to  Aunt  Mary.  She  looked  at  me  rather 
curiously.  The  letter  was  from  Cecil — no,  Mr. 
Merle;  for  I  must  call  him  Cecil  no  longer — 
and  apologized  for  not  coming  to  sav  good-by. 
He  has  been  suddenly  called  away,  and  is  going 
abroad,  probably  for  two  years. 

Oh,  my  heart  is  broken,  and  I  would  that  my 
life  might  end  to-night ! 

4 — FROM  THE   "  DAILY  TELEGRAPH  "  OF  SEPT.  7ra 
(A  YEAR  LATER) 

LEADER — MARSHE. — On  the  4th  inst.,  at  St. 
Margaret's,  Carleston,  by  the  Rev.  Patrick 
Downs,  Charles,  eldest  son  of  the  late  Charles 
Leader,  of  Tredennick,  Cornwall,  to  Millicent, 
only  daughter  of  the  late  Rev.  Hubert  Marshe, 
formerly  rector  of  Carleston. 


IV 

CONGEALED   ART 
(EXTRACT  FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  EDWARD  TINNERSLEY) 

March  21st. — Dined  to-night  with  the  Mer- 
ricks.  There  were  a  lot  of  people  there.  The 
Birnleys  looked  as  profuse  as  ever.  Old  Dr. 
Farnham  told  the  story  of  the  blind  zebra  once 
more.  Eric  Thorn  bored  me.  And  I  forgave 
them  all,  because  I  was  too  pleased  with  myself 
to  bear  enmity  to  anybody — in  a  word,  I  do  be- 
lieve that  I  am  at  last  making  some  progress 
with  Maud.  I  blundered  before,  because  I  did 
not  quite  understand  her.  And  now  I  believe 
that  I  know  her  better  than  she  knows  herself ; 
and  consequently  I  can  play  my  cards — I  can 
create  the  right  impression. 

Maud  Merrick,  my  tall,  noble  beauty,  you 
would  be  very  angry  if  you  could  read  this. 
You  are  affectionate,  but  you  use  always  a 
decent  reserve.  You  would  not  care  to  know 
that  anybody  had  seen  through  the  veil,  and 
knew  all  your  little  likes  and  dislikes,  all  your 
personal  qualities,  and  even  the  one  or  two  in- 


CONCEALED  ART  63 

firmities  of  your  character.  I  know  them  all, 
my  dear  Maud,  and  I  do  not  mind  telling  you 
in  the  pages  of  my  diary — that  you  want  too 
much.  Your  ideal  man,  the  man  you  are  look- 
ing for,  the  man  you  mean  to  marry,  does  not 
exist,  and  never  did  exist  except  in  books.  You 
want,  in  the  man  of  your  choice,  intellect,  cour- 
age, strength,  physique,  chivalry,  and  purity. 
You  do  not  care  for  either  birth  or  wealth.  We 
none  of  us  care  for  birth  really,  and  we  all  pre- 
tend to ;  we  all  care  very  much  for  wealth,  and 
all  pretend  not  to.  (Mem. — Work  this  into 
epigrammatic  form,  and  use  it.)  But  you  are 
quite  genuine  about  it ;  you  really  do  not  care 
for  either.  And  yet,  on  the  whole,  you  ask  too 
much.  Take  myself,  for  instance.  I  can  give 
you  intellect,  but  I  must  draw  my  pen  through 
the  remainder  of  your  list  of  requirements. 
What  does  it  matter?  Having  intellect,  I  can 
make  you  believe  that  I  have  all,  or  nearly  all, 
the  rest.  Maud  Merrick,  you  are  clever  in  your 
way,  but  I  am  cleverer,  and  I  gain  some  advan- 
tage from  having  absolutely  no  scruples.  You 
may  throw  down  your  cards.  The  game  is 
won,  and  I  have  won  it. 

Physique?  Well,  I  must  let  that  pass.  I 
have  not  the  beefy  good  looks  of  Eric  Thorn. 
No  amount  of  intellect  can  make  a  five-foot-six 
man,  bent  with  the  sedentary  profession  of  au- 
thorship, into  a  straight  young  giant  like  Thorn. 


64  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

There  he  has  the  advantage  of  me,  and  he  may 
make  the  most  of  it.  I  am  not  fool  enough  to 
sneer  at  his  good  points  to  her.  I  gaze  admir- 
ingly at  him,  playing  tennis  at  a  little  distance, 
and  say  to  her,  "  What  a  splendid  fellow  Eric 
is!  It  is  a  positive  pleasure  to  look  at  him. 

Ah !  I'd  give  all  I  have  in  the  world  to " 

and  then  I  stop  short.  I  do  not  sigh,  because 
that  would  be  unmanly,  and  would  seem  to 
make  too  much  of  it.  I  look  rather  sad,  and 
then  cheer  up  suddenly,  as  if  with  a  slight 
effort,  and  talk  brightly  to  her  about  something 
impersonal.  A  girl  I  knew  once  told  me  that 
she  rather  liked  me  when  I  looked  sad,  but  that 
when  I  laughed,  or  when  I  was  angry,  my  face 
was  positively  hideous.  I  think  she  was  right. 
My  dear  Maud,  I  did  all  this,  and  I  was 
charmed  to  find  that  the  little  trick  made  every 
point  that  I  intended.  You  noted  my  generos- 
ity to  a  rival,  and  associated  it  in  your  mind 
with  chivalry;  you  noted  my  humility;  you 
noted  that  I  lingered  on  so  personal  a  subject 
as  my  own  appearance  only  for  the  second  when 
my  enthusiastic  admiration  of  Eric  reminded 
me  of  it,  and  that  I  turned  back  at  once  to  the 
decent  reserve  which  is  a  sign  of  strength,  and 
which  you  yourself  maintain  so  well ;  you  noted 
my  sadness  and  sympathized.  That  was  why 
you  said  a  pretty  thing  to  me  about  my  book, 
"AFroward  Woman,"  soon  afterward.  You 


CONCEALED  AKT  C5 

wish  to  console  me ;  if  you  console  me  now,  you 
will  love  me  soon. 

Courage?  I  have  not  got  a  particle  of  it. 
Men  of  delicate  taste,  of  the  subtle,  critical 
faculty,  of  poetical  imagination,  are  often 
cowards.  I  am  a  coward,  and  I  make  you  be- 
lieve, Maud,  that  I  am  brave.  How?  Chiefly 
by  telling  you  that  I  am  a  coward.  It  is  just  a 
little  amusing  that  it  should  be  so,  but  it  is. 

"  I  hate  going  over  Putney  Bridge  at  night. 
I  am  always  afraid  that  some  poor  wretch  will 
jump  into  the  water,  and  that  I  shall  not  dare 
to  jump  off  the  bridge  after  him." 

You  replied  just  as  I  knew  I  should  make 
you  reply.  "  You  would  do  it,  though,  because 
you  think  you  wouldn't.  No  coward  ever  dares 
to  confess  cowardice." 

You  were  a  little  pleased  at  your  own  insight 
into  human  nature,  and  you  believed  what  you 
said.  You  are  one  of  those  women  who  like  to 
go  a  little  deep ;  but  I  always  know  precisely 
how  deep  you  will  go,  and  I  go  a  little  deeper. 

Chivalry  and  purity?  Ah,  Maud,  I  need  say 
nothing ;  you  will  believe  the  best,  because  you 
have  no  reason  to  think  otherwise.  You  do  not 
know  the  story  of  that  girl  I  knew  once,  who 
said  she  rather  liked  me  when  I  looked  sad.  I 
will  take  care  you  never  know  it.  Though  I 
am  writing  in  cipher  and  in  a  diary  which  is 
always  kept  under  lock  and  key,  I  do  not  care 
5 


66  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

to  put  down  that  story.  I  have  no  scruples ;  I 
do  things ;  but  I  sometimes  hate  myself  for  a 
little  while  when  I  think  about  them  afterward. 

I  got  on  very  well  with  Maud  to-night.  Her 
father  and  Lady  Merrick  both  like  me,  I  think. 
The  dinner  itself  was  capital,  and  I  was  in  a 
good  talking  mood.  But  I  am  getting  into  the 
habit  of  bringing  out  my  impromptus  a  little 
too  quickly.  A  slight  pause  makes  them  look 
more  natural;  if  the  pause  is  too  long  they  seem 
labored  and  not  really  impromptu.  It  is  not  an 
easy  thing  to  get  quite  right;  I  must  practise 
it.  When  one  dines  with  the  Merricks,  I  find 
that  one  has  to  be  kind  to  the  Birnleys.  That 
is  a  little  hard  on  me,  because  I  hate  the  nou- 
veau  riche,  and  also  because  I  have  some  par- 
ticularly smart  things  ready  to  say  about  the 
Birnleys.  However,  Maud  will  have  it  so. 
She  says  that  they  are  awfully  good-hearted 
people,  and  not  really  vulgar,  but  only  a  little 
ignorant,  and  that  they  are  sensitive  and  quick 
to  see  when  a  jest  is  aimed  at  them.  (Mem. — 
Work  off  the  smart  things  in  a  sketch  of  the 
nouveau  riche.  Found  it  on  the  Birnleys  and 
describe  their  country-house.  Tell  the  story  of 
how  Birnley  shot  the  keeper.)  Maud  sang  one 
song  to-night — some  Italian  thing,  I  don't  know 
the  name.  She  has  a  fine  contralto. 

I  walked  back  with  Thorn,  and  we  talked 
about  old  college  days  together.  That  man  is 


CONCEALED   ART  67 

a  damnable  nuisance.  In  speaking  of  college 
days  to  Maud,  I  must  either  tell  the  plain  truth 
or  run  the  risk  that  she  will  find  me  out  from 
Thorn.  And  I  can't  use  any  of  my  old  good 
things  in  talking  to  her,  because  she  might 
quote  them  to  Thorn,  and  he  has  heard  them  all 
before.  How  the  brute  would  jeer  at  me  for 
the  repetition ! 

My  diary,  I  think  I  should  go  mad  without 
you.  It  rests  me  to  write  in  your  pages  with- 
out effort.  I  need  not  mind  being  dull  here. 
In  my  talk  and  my  books  I  have  to  maintain  a 
reputation.  Here  I  can  be  dull  and  I  can  tell 
the  truth.  I  feel  to-night  like  a  tired  actor, 
glad  to  get  into  his  dressing-room  and  be  rid  of 
his  wig  and  make-up.  (Mem. — Might  elaborate 
that  sentence  a  little,  and  then  use  it.)  I  will 
not  write  any  more  now.  I  am  going  to  bed. 
I  ought  to  do  some  work  first,  but  I  cannot. 
My  brain  is  full  of  madness  and  Maud.  If  I 
am  to  get  any  sleep,  I  must  go  back  to  the  old 
remedy.  But  I  will  never  use  it  again  after 
to-night. 

March  30th. — I  have  just  finished  my  sketch 
of  the  Birnleys,  and  I  really  do  not  think  I  ever 
did  anything  better  in  my  life.  I  stopped  at 
their  place  for  a  month  last  year,  and  I  flatter 
myself  that  I  have  got  the  people,  the  house, 
and  the  furniture,  with  the  accuracy  of  a  photo- 
graph. I've  just  touched  it  up  a  little  in  places, 


68  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

but  that  is  all.  I've  made  Mrs.  Birnley  a  shade 
more  vulgar,  perhaps,  than  she  really  is.  I 
shall  call  it "  The  Barnsley  Menagerie."  I  shall 
not  put  my  initials  to  it,  because  that  would 
ruin  me  with  Maud,  and  would  also  stop  the 
Birnleys  from  inviting  me  this  year.  I  shall 
send  it  to  The  Drop  Scene  because  none  of  them 
know  that  I  write  for  that  paper.  Eric  Thorn 
had  a  story  in  it  last  week — sporting  and  stupid, 
like  its  author.  That  man  would  make  a  very 
good  navvy.  What  ails  him  that  he  should  be 
called  to  the  bar  and  dabble  in  literature? 

April  3d. — Eric  Thorn  has  just  been  here. 
He  has  proposed  to  Maud  Merrick,  and  has  been 
refused.  I  am  glad. 

"We're  old  friends,"  he  said  to  me,  "and  I 
thought  I  would  tell  you  all  about  it.  No  one 
can  read  your  book,  '  A  Froward  Woman, '  and 
doubt  your  sympathy,  old  man." 

I  assured  him  that  I  was  sorry  for  him,  deeply 
sorry. 

"  Yes,  Ted , "  he  replied,  "  I  know  it.  I  thought 
once  that  I  had  a  chance.  She  seemed  to  like 
me  once,  and  then  she  found  out  that  I  knew 
the  author  of  'A  Froward  Woman, '  and  asked 
me — or  made  Lady  Merrick  ask  me — to  bring 
you  there.  Well,  the  natural  consequences 
have  followed .  I  can't  talk  as  you  can.  You're 
always  sparkling  and  amusing.  And  you're  a 
better  fellow." 


CONCEALED  ART  09 

I  said  something  deprecatory  here,  but  ho 
went  on. 

"  No,  Ted,  I  am  quite  right.  Do  you  know 
what  she  said  to  me  before  she  ever  met  you? 
She  said  that  she  thought  the  author  of  '  A  Fro- 
ward  Woman'  must  have  a  noble  nature.  I 
reminded  her  of  that  the  other  day,  and  asked 
her  if  she  thought  she  was  right.  'I  know  I 
was  right,'  she  replied.  It  was  the  nearest 
thing  to  a  confidence  I  ever  had  from  her.  You 
always  depreciate  yourself  when  you  are  talk- 
ing, but  you  sometimes  let  a  little  thing  drop  by 
accident,  or  do  not  quite  succeed  in  hiding  it. 
I've  noticed  those  little  things,  and  they  are 
all  evidence  that  Maud  was  right.  You  may 
sneer  at  yourself  as  much  as  you  please,  but  you 
don't  deceive  me.  You  have  a  noble  nature, 
nobler  than  mine.  Besides,  you  are  my  intel- 
lectual superior.  Look  at  your  fame  in  the 
world.  I  have  written  a  lot  of  things,  and  I've 
only  got  one  story  printed.  It  was  in  The  Drop 
Scene.  Did  you  see  the  note  about  it  in  The 
London  Eevieiv  this  week — cutting  it  all  to 
bits?  " 

I  said  that  I  had  not  seen  the  note.  I  wrote 
it,  by  the  way.  I  also  asked  him  what  his 
point  was  in  accusing  me  of  being  noble  and 
intellectual. 

"Because  your  absurd  humility  has  made 
you  blind.  Let  me  ask  you  one  question — 


70  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

we  are  old  friends.  Do  you  like  Maud  Mer- 
rick?  " 

"  I  love  her  with  all  my  soul,"  I  said  solemnly, 
seeing  what  was  coming.  ' 

"  And  you  never  told  her,  because  you  knew 
that  I  loved  her  too,  and  because  you  wanted  to 
give  me  the  first  chance." 

I  assumed  an  unnatural  manner,  and  inten- 
tionally spoke  a  little  more  quickly  than  usual. 
"  No,  no — not  at  all — you're  quite  mistaken.  I 
only  waited  to  be  quite  sure  that  she  loved  me, 
and  I  never  thought  you  would  speak  so  soon. 
On  my  word,  I  would  have  done  you  a  bad  turn 
with  her,  if  I  could."  What  a  curious  thing 
human  nature  is !  Every  word  of  this  was  true, 
and  yet  he  didn't  believe  it.  I  had  an  impres- 
sion that  he  wouldn't  believe  it. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Thorn,  "why  try  to 
hide  your  generosity  by  talking  such  absolute 
nonsense?  She  herself  told  me  that  you  were 
always  singing  my  praises  to  her." 

My  dear  simpleton,  didn't  you  know  that  it 
is  quite  possible  to  ruin  a  man's  chances  with 
a  woman  by  praising  him  very  carefully?  I 
praised  you,  my  dear  Thorn,  with  the  utmost 
discretion.  He  continued : 

"  In  this  point  I  am  going  to  try  not  to  be  less 
generous  than  you.  I  feel  sure  that  Maud  Mer- 
rick  loves  you.  I  suspected  it  even  before  I 
spoke  to  her,  and  I  only  spoke  because  I  could 


CONCEALED  ART  71 

not  bear  the  suspense  any  longer.  It  may 
seem  strange  that  I — a  rejected  lover — should 
come  to  tell  you  this,  but  I  felt  that  I  owed  it 
to  you ;  besides,  I  want  her  to  be  happy.  You 
are  the  only  man  in  the  world  who  can  make 
her  happy." 

I  thanked  him.     "  And  you?  "  I  asked. 

"  I'm  going  away,  Ted,  going  to  travel  and 
forget  it.  I  start  on  the  8th.  I  will  see  you 
again  before  I  go." 

He  went  soon  after  this.  He  looks  terribly 
knocked  over.  All  this  is  going  splendidly. 
Now  I  have  three  things  before  me — a  letter  to 
write  to  Sir  Charles  Merrick,  two-thirds  of  a 
bottle  of  very  excellent  brandy,  and  the  proofs 
of  "The  Barnsley  Menagerie"  to  correct.  I 
will  take  them  in  that  order. 

April  5th. — Maud,  my  beautiful  Maud,  has 
promised  to  be  my  wife. 

April  6th. — A  most  terrible  thing  has  hap- 
pened. The  Drop  Scene  has  been  sent  me  here 
with  my  article  "  The  Barnsley  Menagerie  "  in 
it,  signed  with  my  initials. 

How  on  earth  did  they  get  there?  I  must 
have  added  them  from  force  of  habit  when  I 
corrected  the  proof.  I  remember  that  it  was 
late  on  the  night  of  the  3d  that  I  corrected  it. 
It  was  the  night  I  wrote  to  her  father,  and  then 
I ah,  yes,  I  remember  now. 

As  far  as  I  can  see,  there  is  nothing  to  do  but 


72  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

to  calculate  what  will  happen,  and  then  see  how 
it  can  be  stopped.  In  the  first  place,  the  Birn- 
leys will  read  the  article ;  they  will  certainly  see 
that  it  is  meant  for  them,  and  that  it  must  have 
been  written  by  some  one  who  stayed  at  their 
place  in  the  country ;  they  know  that  I  write 
for  the  press  and  they  will  see  my  initials.  I 
fancy  that  they  will  all  go  mad.  They  will 
call  me  hard  names  and  will  cut  me  dead  for- 
ever and  ever.  Well,  I  care  nothing  about  the 
Birnleys.  They  may  go  to  the  devil. 

But  Maud — my  beautiful,  noble  Maud — what 
will  she  think?  Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  she 
will  have  a  little  piece  of  evidence  that  the 
Birnleys  will  not  have,  and  which  will  make 
her  doubly  sure  that  I  am  the  author  of  that 
article.  It  commences  with  a  little  epigram  of 
mine  on  birth  and  wealth.  Now,  on  the  day 
after  I  wrote  the  article,  I  called  at  their  house 
with  Eric  Thorn.  In  the  course  of  conversa- 
tion I  dropped  that  very  epigram.  She  heard 
it  and  noticed  it.  I  had  meant  to  strike  it  out 
when  I  got  my  article  in  proof,  but  I  suppose  I 
forgot  it.  I  cannot  have  been  quite  m}Tself  that 
night.  She  will  simply  hate  me  and  despise  me. 
I  can  imagine  her  eyes  flashing,  and  the  tender 
sympathy  she  will  show  with  her  good-hearted 
Birnleys.  It  would  be  pretty  to  watch,  if  one 
could  be  a  little  more  outside  it.  However,  I  do 
not  fancy  it  is  quite  checkmate.  I  will  have  a 


CONCEALED   ART  73 

quiet  pipe,  think  out  a  probable  story  to  account 
for  everything,  and  go  to  bed.  I  am  sure  my 
doctor  would  recommend  me  a  little  chloral 
to-night,  considering  the  excited  state  of  my 
nerves.  What  a  letter  I  shall  get  to-morrow 
morning ! 

April  7th  (morning). — Here  is  the  letter.  I 
see  by  the  date  that  it  was  written  yesterday : 

"Sm: — I  read  this  morning  your  article  in 
The  Drop  Scene,  entitled  'The  Barnsley  Men- 
agerie.' Kindly  consider  my  engagement  to 
you  at  an  end.  If  you  wish  for  a  more  definite 
reason,  I  may  say  that  the  article  must  have 
been  written  by  an  insufferable,  vulgar,  cruel 
cad.  I  know  it  is  yours  by  the  initials,  by  your 
acquaintance  with  the  Birnleys,  and  by  the  fact 
that  you  have  used  in  it  an  epigram  which  I 
heard  from  your  own  lips.  On  the  whole,  I  am 
thankful  that  you  have  been  so  stupid  as  to 
allow  your  real  character  to  be  seen. 

"  I  saw  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Birnley  this  afternoon. 
She  sat  fierce  and  dry-eyed,  reading  your  spite- 
ful article  again  and  again.  She  hardly  spoke 
to  me.  He  tried  to  take  it  more  easily.  'It's 
partly  my  own  fault,'  he  said,  'but  it  is  rather 
hard  -that  we  should  be  treated  like  this,  Maud, 
by  a  man  who  was  our  guest.  We  did  our  best 
to  entertain  him  when  he  was  here.  But  still 
it's  partly  true — that  article.  I'm  a  very  good 


74  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

manufacturer,  but  I  only  made  a  fool  of  myself 
when  I  tried  to  play  the  country  gentleman. 
And  I'm  clumsy  with  a  gun — that's  true.'  He 
paused  a  second,  and  then  looked  at  his  wife. 
'My  God!  Maud,'  he  flashed  out  suddenly,  'if 
only  I  could  have  the  thrashing  of  the  hound 
who  wrote  that ! '  I  wish  he  had.  He  is  an  old 
man,  but  vigorous.  I  think  he  could  thrash  you 
well.  How  could  you  be  so  cruel  to  people  who 
had  tried  to  be  kind  to  you? 

"  I  have  no  patience  to  write  more.  You  will 
oblige  me  by  not  answering  this  letter,  cr  call- 
ing at  our  house,  or  making  any  attempt  what- 
ever to  see  me. 

"MAUD  MERRICK. 

"P.  S.—O  Ted,  how  could  you  do  it?  I  did 
really  love  you  once,  and  now  I  hate  you." 

Now,  that  is  not  altogether  a  nice  letter  to  re- 
ceive. "  An  insufferable,  vulgar,  cruel  cad  " — I 
suppose  that  is  very  much  what  I  am,  judged 
by  ordinary  standards,  but  I  have  always  had 
wits  enough  to  hide  it  so  far.  It's  not  my  fault. 
I  was  born  so,  and  no  one  could  expect  me  to 
do  anything  else  but  hide  the  real  self.  I  do 
not  really  care,  as  long  as  I  can  keep  Maud.  I 
must  have  Maud.  I  thought  of  an  explanation 
]ast  night,  but  it  is  not  absolutely  satisfactory. 
I  will  go  and  get  something  particularly  pleas- 
ant and  inspiring  in  the  shape  of  lunch.  I  shall 


CONCEALED   ART  75 

bo  able  to  think  better  after  a  half-bottle  of 
champagne. 

(Evening.)  Eric  Thorn  has  just  been  here. 
Really,  he  is  a  most  useful  person.  When  he 
came  in,  he  was  as  white  as  death,  and  there 
was  a  queer  sort  of  huskiness  in  his  voice. 

"  Ted,  old  man,"  he  said,  "  I've  just  been  tell- 
ing lies,  any  amount  of  lies." 

"All  this  I  steadfastly  believe,"  I  replied. 
He  went  on  talking : 

"  I  called  at  the  Merricks'  to-night  to  say  good- 
by.  Sir  Charles  came  into  the  room  with  that 
number  of  The  Drop  Scene  in  his  hand,  open 
at  your  article:  ' Thorn,  old  fellow,  I  want  you 
just  to  read  that. '  There  was  no  one  else  in  the 
room.  I  sat  down  and  read  it.  Of  course,  I 
saw  that  it  was  yours,  and  that  the  Merricks 
would  in  all  probability  have  nothing  more  to 
do  with  you.  Ted,  how  could  you  write  such  a 
thing  about  people  who  were  so  kind  to  you?  " 

This  made  me  a  little  angry.  "Possibly,"  I 
said,  "  I  could  give  a  sufficient  explanation  to 
any  one  who  had  a  right  to  ask  for  it." 

"  Well,  I  didn't  see  how  it  could  be  quite  ex- 
plained away.  Yet  all  the  time  I  was  reading 
it,  I  thought  I  could  see  how  it  happened.  You 
caricatured  the  Birnleys,  but  half  unconsciously. 
Your  tremendous  power  of  satire  carried  you 
away,  and  made  you  say  things  that  you  didn't 
really  mean.  I  know  that  a  man  who  behaved 


76  STORIES   AND    INTERLUDES 

with  the  generosity  that  you  showed  to  me  about 
Maud  could  not  possibly  do  a  shabby  thing  in- 
tentionally. I  know  how  hard  it  is  to  criticise 
one's  own  work,  and  I  felt  sure  that  you  had 
failed  to  see  how  certain  it  was  that  the  Birnleys 
would  be  offended.  If  you  had  meant  it  as  an 
intentional  insult,  you  would  not  have  been  fool 
enough  to  put  your  initials  to  it,  and  to  com- 
mence it  with  an  epigram  which  both  Maud  and 
myself  had  heard  from  your  lips.  It  was  the 
only  slip  I  ever  knew  you  make,  and  I  felt 
sure  that  you  would  never  do  that  kind  of  thing 
again,  as  soon  as  you  saw  the  distress  that  it 
caused.  Well,  I  knew  Maud  would  give  you 
up,  and  break  your  heart  over  it  and  her  own 
as  well.  So  I  made  up  my  mind  on  the  spur  of 
the  moment,  and  took  the  liberty  of  claiming 
the  authorship  of  the  work  as  my  own.  Our 
initials  are  the  same,  you  know,  Ted." 

"  You  did  that  ?  "  I  said.  I  own  that  he  had 
surprised  me.  "How  did  you  make  the  old 
man  believe  it?  " 

"  I  pointed  out  that  the  initials  were  mine, 
that  you  never  wrote  for  Ilie  Drop  Scene,  and 
that  I  had  a  story  in  it  a  short  time  before.  I 
told  him  that  I  borrowed  the  epigram  at  the 
commencement  of  the  article  from  you,  that  I 
had  stopped  with  the  Birnleys,  and  that  I  didn't 
care  for  them.  I  said  that  I  couldn't  see  much 
harm  in  the  article,  and  that  The  Drop  Scene 


CONCEALED   ART  77 

liked  a  thing  to  have  a  few  personalities  in 
it." 

"How  did  he  take  it?" 

"  He  was  very  sad  about  it.  They've  known 
me  for  a  long  time,  you  see.  'I  can't  think 
how  you  came  to  write  it,  Thorn,'  he  said. 
'You  ought  not  to  have  done  it.  You  have 
caused  my  daughter  and  all  of  us  to  do  a  friend 
of  yours  a  great  injustice ;  and  you  have  given 
great  pain  to  people  whose  hospitality  you  en- 
joyed. I  hate  saying  it,  but  I  must — you  can- 
not come  here  any  more.  It  is  well  that  you 
are  leaving  the  country.  Take  a  word  of  ad- 
vice before  you  go,  from  an  old  man  who  was 
once  glad  to  have  you  for  his  friend — if  you 
can't  be  smart  without  being  shabby,  let  it  alone 
— let  it  alone,  my  boy ! '  Then  he  touched  the 
bell,  a,nd  I  retired  ignominiously. " 

He  rose  to  go,  paused  a  moment,  and  said : 
"  That's  the  story  I  told,  and  you  must  back  it 
up.  Good-by,  old  man.  I  will  find  a  new 
character  for  myself  abroad  somewhere." 

He  tried  to  hide  it,  but  I  could  see  that  he 
thought  he  had  acted  generously,  and  naturally 
that  maddened  me.  I  could  not  allow  him  to 
think  that  he  had  put  me  under  any  obligation. 
I  like  to  take  the  conceit  out  of  young  men  of  the 
type  of  Eric  Thorn.  The  self-sacrificing  saint 
is  too  provoking  for  anything. 

"I  am  very  sorry,  Thorn,"  I  said,   "that  you 


78  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

have  destroyed  your  own  character,  stolen  my 
property,  and  told  some  most  abominable  lies, 
because  it  was  all  unnecessary.  I  know  you  did 
it  for  my  sake,  but  you  would  have  served  me 
better  if  you  had  trusted  me  more.  How  could 
you  think  I  should  be  such  a  blackguard  as  to 
caricature  a  host  of  mine  in  the  public  press?  " 

"You  didn't  write  it,  then ?"  he  stammered 
out. 

"  Yes,  I  wrote  it — wrote  it  for  practice  to  im- 
prove me  in  delineation  of  character — but  not 
for  publication.  It  was  published  without  my 
consent  and  without  my  knowledge.  Do  you 
know  the  editor  of  The  Drop  Scene  ?  " 

"No." 

I  was  delighted  to  learn  this.  "  I  am  very 
sorry  to  hear  it,"  I  said,  "because,  if  you  had 
known  him,  you  would  have  understood  my 
explanation  better.  He  is  the  most  unscrupulous 
man  engaged  on  the  press,  and  the  finest  critic. 
I  took  him  my  sketch  of  the  Birnleys  to  look  at 
and  criticise  as  a  literary  performance.  He 
liked  it  and  wanted  to  print  it.  I  told  him 
that  I  would  not  have  it  printed.  He  offered 
me  a  very  high  price ;  I  replied  that  the  sketch 
was  from  real  life,  and  that  there  was  not 
enough  money  in  London  to  buy  it;  that  I 
would  sooner  have  my  right  hand  cut  off  than 
make  fun  at  the  expense  of  a  friend  and  host  of 
mine.  I  took  the  manuscript  away  with  me 


CONCEALED  ART  79 

there  and  then.  He  must  have  expected  this, 
for  he  had  had  a  copy  made  of  it.  It  was  pub- 
lished without  my  consent.  I  should  certainly 
have  prosecuted." 

"And  now?" 

"Well,  now  I  must  leave  it." 

"  It  would  be  possible  to  explain  to  the  Mer- 
ricks  my  innocent  deception,  and  for  you  to 
clear  yourself  by  telling  them  what  you  have 
told  me.  Would  not  that  be  best?  " 

This  was  a  little  difficult;  for  if  there  had 
been  a  single  word  of  truth  in  my  story  of  the 
unscrupulous  editor,  it  would  have  been  much 
the  best. 

"I  think  not,"  I  said;  "I  think  not.  You 
have  gone  too  far.  Of  course,  I  know  that  your 
motive  for  the  story  you  told  Sir  Charles  Mer- 
rick  was  innocent  enough.  But  I  might  find  it 
difficult  to  persuade  him  of  this.  As  a  literary 
performance,  my  article  has  attracted  consider- 
able attention !  From  that  point  of  view  it  is 
undoubtedly  good.  I  am  afraid  that  Sir  Charles 
will  think  that  you  wanted  the  literary  credit 
of  it,  and  then  backed  out  to  avoid  the  moral 
infamy.  I  do  not  think  your  position  would  in 
any  way  be  improved." 

He  looked  at  me  curiously  for  a  second  or  two. 
"Good-by,  then,"  he  said.  "I'm  sorry  I  was 
so  stupid  and  mistaken."  He  went  out  in  a 
dejected,  hopeless  way.  I  fancy  he  has  a  lurk- 


80  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

ing  suspicion.  Let  it  lurk!  He's  going  away 
and  I  shall  not  be  bothered  with  him  any  more. 
So  the  Merricks  believe  now  that  Eric  Thorn 
wrote  that  article,  do  they?  I  think  then  that 
I  will  answer  Maud's  letter  in  spite  of  her  in- 
junctions. I  should  imagine  that  my  beautiful 
Maud  wishes  now  that  she  had  never  written  it. 
Never  mind — I  can  be  magnanimous,  Maud, 
and  very  high-souled.  This  is  what  I  shall 
write  to  you,  Maud : 

"  DEAR  Miss  MERRICK  : — I  am  sorry  that  you 
could  ever  have  imagined  that  I  wrote  'The 
Barnsley  Menagerie.'  Had  I  done  so,  you 
would  have  been  quite  just  in  your  criticism 
of  me. 

"  I  can  only  prove  to  you  that  I  did  not  write 
it  by  telling  you  who  the  real  author  is,  and  this 
I  cannot  do.  He  confessed  the  authorship  to 
me  in  confidence.  Perhaps  he  may  afterward 
decide  to  let  his  name  be  known.  But,  if  he 
does  not,  I  cannot  tell  you — I  cannot  break  my 
word  to  him. 

"  '  I  co.uld  not  love  thee  half  so  much, 
Loved  I  not  honor  more. ' 

"  Forgive  me  for  having  disobeyed  your  com- 
mand by  writing  this  letter.  I  could  not  rest 
until  I  had  made  an  appeal  to  you  to  believe  my 
word  for  the  present,  and  to  trust  to  time  to 


CONCEALED   ART  81 

prove  the  truth  of  it.     Believe  me,  yours  in  all 
sincerity,  EDWARD  TINNERSLEY." 

And  this  is  what  I  shall  write  to  the  editor  of 
The  Drop  Scene : 

"DEAR  TOM:— No  end  of  a  row  about  'The 
Menagerie.'  Keep  my  name  dark,  for  God's 
sake,  and  I'll  do  you  something  ripping  for  next 
week.  It's  rare  sport  at  present;  but  the  coun- 
try wouldn't  hold  me  if  it  were  known  that  I 
wrote  it.  Say  a  man  called  Eric  Thorn  wrote 
it,  if  asked.  It's  safe.  Yours  ever, 

"TED  TINNERSLEY." 

And  now  I  think  I  may  go  to  bed  with  a 
clear  conscience.  I  shall  be  able  to  sleep  all 
right  to-night.  Good-night,  my  darling  Maud. 
I  am  afraid  that  you  will  lie  awake,  thinking 
of  those  hard  names  you  called  me. 

April  8th. — A  very  pretty,  penitent  letter 
from  Maud.  She  seems  really  distressed  at 
having  written  to  me  so  fiercely.  She  has  not 
an  atom  of  pride  or  reserve  left  in  her  now. 
"  Eric  Thorn  has  confessed  that  he  wrote  the 
hateful  thing.  It  was  noble  of  you  to  keep  his 
name  secret  because  of  your  promise  to  him. 
Are  men  always  so  loyal  to  their  friends?  " 

That  is  really  very  nice.  "  Forgive  me !  for- 
give me ! "  she  says  at  the  close  of  the  letter. 


82  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

Yes,  Maud,  I  forgive  you,  and  I  will  call  on 
you  to-day  to  say  so.  I  am  feeling  particularly 
magnanimous  just  now.  With  what  sorrow  I 
shall  speak  of  the  shocking  behavior  of  my  for- 
mer friend,  Eric  Thorn !  And  how  really  high- 
toned  I  shall  be!  I  really  must  stop  to  laugh. 

To-night,  Maud,  you  will  know  the  joys  of 
sin  forgiven ;  they  are  not  quite  so  great  as  the 
joys  of  sins  concealed.  I  have  tried  both. 
(Mem. — Might  put  that  into  the  mouth  of  some 
cynical  blackguard  in  a  story — it's  not  bad.) 

In  a  few  months'  time,  Maud,  you  will  be 
mine  indeed ;  and  then  will  come  the  disillusion. 
You  will  know  that  I  really  am  what  you  once 
called  me,  "a  vulgar,  cruel  cad."  I  was  born 
so.  I  tried  to  be  better  once,  but  it  was  of  no 
use.  There  is  a  certain  horror  about  that  which 
comes  over  me  suddenly  sometimes.  It  is  an 
awful  thing  to  be  hateful  and  to  know  that  it 
is  of  no  use  to  try  to  be  anything  else.  In  the 
midst  of  success,  and  high  spirits,  and  jeers  at 
everything,  that  thought  suddenly  comes  over 
me,  and  I  writhe.  I  seem  to  see  the  devil  him- 
self sitting  in  the  room  with  me,  looking  at  me 
and  smiling  horribly.  And  with  him  is  that 
other  girl  of  whom  I  have  spoken — she  drowned 
herself.  She  does  not  smile.  She  just  sits  and 
scares — no,  I  won't  write  any  more.  (Mem.— 
Some  of  the  above  paragraphs  might  be  useful 
for  a  sketch  of  character,  called  "Remorse.") 


THE  DEVIL'S  AUCTION 

Now,    gentlemen,    your   offers.     This  maiden 

sings  and  dances, 
She's  beautiful,  and  innocent,  and  lively  as 

the  day. 
You  bid  a   fortune?      Thank  you,    sir.      I'm 

waiting  for  advances ; 
And  you  a  life's  devotion?     Here,  take  that 

boy  away. 
A  title?     Come,  that's  better.     Now  it's  going, 

going,  going- 
She  is  but  seventeen,  sirs,  and  lovely  as  you 

see — 
Gone!     Madam,  you're  the  property,  you  will 

be  pleased  at  knowing, 
Of  a  genial  old  roue  of  the  age  of  sixty -three. 

Now  here's  a  nice  cold  chicken  and  a  bottle 

from  the  ice,  sirs — 
Ah,  you  dramatic  critics,  aren't  you  hungry? 

Won't  you  bid? 

Won't  some  one  offer  me  his  soul — a  very  mod- 
erate price,  sirs? 

You  sold  your  soul  last  week,  sir?     Yes — 
dear  me — of  course  you  did ! 
83 


84  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

Here's  a  ticket  for  n,  prize-fight.     The  magis- 
trate's the  winner, 
After  some  sharp  contention — the  bidding's 

getting  bold. 
Here's  a  poet.     What,  no  offers?     Won't  some 

one  bid  a  dinner? 

Take  the  brute  away  and  drown  him;     he 
never  will  be  sold. 

And  lastly  I  would  offer  here  an  over-dose  of 

chloral. 
That    boy    again?     Bids    twopence?      Why 

don't  you  turn  him  out? 
I  may  mention  that  the  notion  that  suicide's 

immoral 
Is  an  antiquated  fallacy — it's  utterly  played 

out. 

We  cannot  think  of  twopence ;  now,  I'm  wait- 
ing for  advances — 
There's  not  a  death  more  painless,  and  I'll 

guarantee  it  true — 
Oh !     Here's  a  better  offer  from  the  maid  who 

sings  and  dances. 

Thank  you,  maiden — I'd  a  fancy  I  should  sell 
this  lot  to  you. 


WHEN  THAT  SWEET  CHILD  LAY  DEAD 
A  VIGIL 

IT  was  quite  a  little  room.  The  window 
looked  out  on  a  garden,  on  an  orchard  beyond 
it,  and  on  the  old  quiet  hills  that  had  made  the 
child  understand  what  "  far  away  "  meant.  She 
had  heard,  months  ago,  the  bees  monotonously, 
musically  busy  among  the  garden  flowers ;  she 
had  watched  in  the  orchard  the  blossoms  delicate 
with  the  fragile  grace  of  immaturity,  and  when 
the  autumn  came,  she  had  seen  the  boughs 
twisted  and  bent  with  their  effort  to  do  good, 
with  their  burden  of  fruit;  she  had  strayed 
through  the  park-land ;  she  had  seen  the  sun 
set  over  the  hills,  when  far  up  the  sky  went  the 
touch  of  pale  gold  on  clouds  that  were  like 
angels'  wings.  Her  eyes  had  grown  brighter, 
always,  and  her  thoughts  stranger  as  she 
watched;  it  had  made  her,  the  child  of  a  musi- 
cian, want  to  hear  the  music  that  in  her  serious 
moments  had  seemed  to  understand  her  best. 
She  was  not  to  see  such  things,  nor  hear  them, 
nor  understand  any  more.  On  this  eve  of  the 
85 


86  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

New  Year  she  lay  motionless,  arranged  with 
white  hands  crossed,  on  the  bed  in  one  corner 
of  the  room ;  the  trees  in  the  orchard  were  gaunt 
and  black,  mocked  by  cruel  winds;  the  snow 
drove  and  drove ;  the  year's  last  day  died  out  in 
darkness. 

Everything  in  the  little  room — a  little  room 
in  a  great  house — was  very  neat  and  orderly. 
Some  one  had  taken  away  from  the  low  table 
by  the  bedside  the  row  of  medicine  bottles — 
grim  reminders  of  futile  effort — and  had  placed 
there  an  old  blue-and- white  bowl,  full  of  Christ- 
mas roses.  In  the  fireplace  the  logs  burned 
brightly.  She  did  not  need  the  grace  of  the 
flowers  nor  the  warmth  of  the  fire  any  more. 
But  some  one  had  seen  to  these  things — had 
done  them  from  a  sentiment ;  nearly  all  the  best 
things  that  one  does  are  done  from  a  sentiment. 
Flowers  and  fire  were  useless ;  but  when  that 
sweet  child  lay  dead,  to  those  in  the  great  house 
all  things  had  seemed  useless.  She  had  been 
very  dear  to  all  of  them;  they  thought  her 
lovelier,  brighter,  gentler  than  other  children. 
Yet  her  chief  charm  was,  perhaps,  that  she  had 
returned  their  affection;  she  had  loved  people 
very  easily — even  unlikely  people.  Downstairs 
the  servants  who  had  waited  on  her  were  ludi- 
crously pathetic;  it  was  a  chance  whether  one 
who  had  seen  them  would  have  laughed  or  felt 
like  weeping.  Two  maids,  who  had  known 


WHEN  THAT   SWEET  CHILD   LAY  DEAD      87 

enmity  from  some  jealousy  about  that  child, 
now  snuffled  together  in  common  sorrow,  gro- 
tesquely genuine.  "  And  Mr.  Richards  feels  it 
too,"  said  one  of  them,  ''though  it's  little  as  Mr. 
Richards  ever  shows."  Richards  was  the  old 
butler,  a  stern  man,  made  cynical  possibly  by 
too  intimate  a  knowledge  of  the  wine  trade. 
He  was  in  his  pantry,  polishing  silver  very 
briskly,  almost  jauntily ;  ho  caught  sight  of  her 
cup,  a  christening  gift;  he  recalled  how  she 
had  once  wrung  from  his  sternness  some  slight 
concession  about  a  new  footman,  really  by  no 
means  up  to  his  work;  ho  began  at  once  to 
whistle  the  gayest  of  tunes  in  a  desperate  whis- 
pered whistle,  then  stopped  suddenly,  made  an 
involuntary  curious  sound  in  his  throat,  and 
went  on  polishing  furiously.  Later  on  his 
manner  grew  icy. 

From  her  room  one  could  now  have  heard 
very  faintly  the  sound  of  the  organ  being  played 
in  the  wide  gallery  which  ran  from  wing  to 
wing  of  the  house.  It  was  her  father,  the  great 
composer,  who  was  playing.  She  had  been  his 
only  child,  and  her  mother  had  died  in  her  baby- 
hood. So  he  was  alone  now.  He  had  been 
saying  that  to  himself  during  the  day :  "  I  am 
quite  alone  now . "  There  were  other  people  in 
the  house,  relations  more  or  less  near ;  but,  as 
far  as  his  sorrow  was  concerned,  they  were  a 
hundred  miles  away.  He  had  been  happy,  as 


88  STORIES   AND    INTERLUDES 

some  count  happiness;  he  had  loved  his  art  and 
had  been  great  in  it ;  he  had  wealth,  and  could 
follow  art  for  art's  sake.  Only  he  was  human 
and  had  not  escaped  human  joys,  nor  the  sor- 
rows that  follow  them  so  closely ;  he  had  loved 
a  wife  and  child,  and  he  had  lost  them.  That 
afternoon  he  had  sat  quite  alone  in  his  studio, 
thinking.  A  salver,  laden  with  letters,  was 
brought  into  the  room.  He  opened  a  few  of 
the  letters.  They  were  all  well-meaning,  and 
yet  so  futile.  He  felt  that  he  could  read  no 
more  of  them,  and  that  he  could  not  keep  quiet 
and  inactive  any  longer.  He  went  up  into  the 
long  gallery  and  paced  up  and  down.  Then  he 
arranged  the  mechanism  which  blew  the  organ, 
and  opened  the  instrument,  and  lit  the  candles 
on  either  side  of  it.  The  rest  of  the  gallery  lay 
in  darkness.  And  then  he  s-at  down  to  play. 
The  music  was  sorrow  without  consolation; 
religion  without  hope. 

In  the  little  room  the  flicker  of  fire-light  fell 
on  the  golden  hair  and  delicate  upturned  face  of 
that  sweet  child.  Did  it  matter  to  the  rest  of 
the  world — to  things  that  are  inarticulate,  or 
even  voiceless,  and,  as  some  think,  inanimate? 
Were  the  flowers  that  she  had  loved  sorry,  or 
the  winds  that  had  played  in  her  hair?  Per- 
haps on  that  bleak  eve  of  the  New  Year  there 
was  something  said  that  one  would  not  have 
heard  as  one  hears  a  voice,  which  might  through 


WHEN    THAT    SWEET    CHILD   LAY    DEAD      80 

a  dream  have  won  its  way  to  words.  What  did 
the  Christmas  roses  think  about  it  in  that  old 
blue-and- white  bowl  on  the  table  by  her  side? 
Was  it  all  nothing  to  them  when  that  sweet 
child  lay  dead?  ' 

It  was  sheer  carelessness,  of  course,  and  had 
not  been  done  with  any  evil  intention  at  all. 
But  that  did  not  alter  the  facts  of  the  case — his 
stem  was  not  in  the  water,  and  he  had  felt  a 
little  wilted  at  the  very  outset. 

Flowers  choose  their  own  names,  and  this  one 
had  called  himself  Wilkinson.  He  had  seen 
the  name  on  a  scrap  of  newspaper  that  had  been 
blown  down  the  garden  walk,  and  never  ought 
to  have  been  there,  and  was  the  under-gardener's 
fault.  Wilkinson  knew  that  owing  to  sheer 
carelessness  his  death  would  be  hastened  by 
some  few  hours;  he  did  not  mind  the  death 
(flowers,  possibly  from  vanity,  love  to  be  cut 
and  put  in  vases ;  and  it  is  heaven  to  them  to 
be  worn  in  a  girl's  hair),  but  he  did  object  to 
anything  like  carelessness.  He  liked  people  to 
do  their  whole  duty.  Even  while  selecting  the 
name  of  Wilkinson  he  had  deprecated  the  un- 
tidiness of  the  under-gardener. 

"  Cut  me  and  put  me  in  a  bowl,  if  you  like, " 
he  remarked  snappishly.  "If  you  think  mo 
beautiful,  you  couldn't  do  any  better.  Only 
do  it.  Don't  half  do  it.  Don't  leave  me  with 


90  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

my  stem  out  of  the  water  in  this  sickening  way. 
If  you  do,  you  commit  sin;  and  I  can't  bear  to 
S3e  it  done."  He  was  not  addressing  any  of  the 
other  flowers  in  particular,  he  was  merely  solilo- 
quizing on  the  subject  of  strict  duty,  which 
was  an  unpleasing  habit  that  he  had.  No 
flowers  care  in  the  least  about  death,  except  tho 
sweet  violets,  who  have  some  mysterious  love 
secrets  of  their  own,  never  properly  understood, 
which  they  do  not  like  to  be  interrupted.  Few 
flowers  are  quite  so  strict  or  quite  so  sharp- 
tempered  as  Wilkinson  was. 

"It  wasn't  her  fault,"  pleaded  a  little  bud, 
called  Candor,  who  had  been  looking  at  the  sweet 
child-  motionless  on  her  bed. 

"My  dear  child,"  said  Wilkinson,  rather 
patronizingly,  "  how  very  young  you  are !  Any 
one  could  tell  you  were  a  bud.  Don't  you  know 
that  sweet  child's  dead?  She's  no  use — can't 
put  flowers  in  water  any  more — so  they'll  throw 
her  away.  They  ought  to  have  thrown  her 
away  before,  I  should  have  thought ;  but  human 
beings  are  always  so  careless  and  untidy." 

"She's  very  pretty,"  said  Candor;  "very 
pretty  indeed.  I  wish  they  had  put  me  in  her 
hair.  Who  was  it  placed  us  in  this  bowl?  " 

"  Ah !  yes.  You  were  too  young  to  remember 
it.  It  was  Richards  who  put  us  here — and  left 
my  stem  out  of  the  water.  How  mad  such 
thoughtlessness  does  make  me!  You're  too 


WHEN  THAT  SWEET   CHILD   LAY   DEAD      91 

young  to  be  worn  in  a  girl's  hair.  But  Richards 
might  perhaps  have  selected  something — some- 
thing a  little  more  full  blown.  I  don't  refer  to 
myself  in  particular,  of  course,  although  for  the 
matter  of  that,  as  far  as  mature  beauty  is  con- 
cerned— well,  well,  it's  not  for  me  to  say." 

"  Death  is  very  beautiful.  Do  human  beings 
like  to  die?" 

Wilkinson  shrugged  his  petals  impatiently. 
"  What  a  perfectly  bud-like  remark !  Death  is 
not  beautiful.  Death  is  nothing.  You  simply 
stop,  that's  all.  As  you  are  generally  feeling 
rather  faded,  you're  not  sorry  to  stop.  But 
you're  not  particularly  glad.  It's  pleasanter,  of 
course,  to  die  in  a  girl's  hair  than  to  live  in  a 
garden,  especially  where  the  under-gardener's 
so  grossly  untidy.  I  believe  you  have  been 
talking  to  those  violets,"  he  added,  rather 
sharply. 

"  No,  really,  I  haven't.  Why  did  you  ask 
that?  " 

"They've  got  some  sentimental  ideas  about 
death.  No,  I  don't  suppose  human  beings  mind 
it.  I  don't  see  how  they  can  mind  a  thing 
which  is  of  absolutely  no  importance." 

"  They  live  longer  than  we  do. " 

"  They  live  an  unconscionable  time,  most  of 
them,  especially  under-gardeners.  That  is  prob- 
ably because  they  have  not  our  advantages, 
and  do  not  understand.  That  child  has  stopped 


92  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

rather  early — yes,  she  is  a  sweet  child.  I  can 
remember  when  I  was  quite  a  bud,  she  went 
past  laughing.  You  should  have  seen  the  sun- 
light on  her  hair !  " 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Candor  spoke  at 
last : 

"Wilkinson,  do  you  think  anything  really 
stops,  or  is  it  just  seeming?  She  is  so  pretty, 
and  you  remember  her  laughter,  and  any 
flower  would  have  been  glad  to  die  in  that  beau- 
tiful hair.  It  can't  have  all  been  to  no  purpose. " 

Wilkinson  was  distressed — deeply  distressed. 
"  You  pain  and  grieve  me  more  than  I  can  say. 
The  old  faiths  are  all  going.  Have  you  not 
been  taught  to  believe  in  the  nothingness  of 
everything?  "Why  do  you  listen  to  the  hideous 
voice  of  emotion?  " 

Candor  grew  almost  passionate.  "I  must. 
If  I  did  not  listen  I  should  not  know  what  to  do 
for  sorrow!  She  is  lovely.  She  is  an  angel's 
dream — not  dead,  but  corne  true  at  last.  Sweet 
child,  speak  to  me  and  tell  me  that  I  am  right. 
Speak  only  once  and  tell  me  this  trifling — this 
life  and  death — is  not  everything.  Tell  me  that 
there  is  more  beyond — beyond." 

"You  are  sickly  and  heterodox,"  said  Wil- 
kinson sternly.  "  There  is  nothing  beyond.  I 
believe — nay,  I  know — that  death  is  entire  ces- 
sation. And  I  am  going  to  drop." 

He  dropped   f ragmen tarily.     It  is  ordained 


WHEN   THAT   SWEET   CHILD   LAY  DEAD      93 

that  in  its  last  moments  even  the  tidiest  flower 
shall  be  untidy.  And  Candor  still  waited;  but 
all  was  silent  in  that  little  room. 

Now,  the  winds  are  spirits,  lost  spirits ;  they 
never  rest,  and  they  ever  long  for  rest. 

That  night  a  great  wind  swept  past  the  house, 
ice-cold  and  howling  with  misery.  It  beat  on 
the  windows  of  that  little  room  until  they 
shook ;  and  then  it  went  flying  onward  through 
the  driving  snow.  After  it  came  another,  softly 
pattering,  like  the  pattering  of  a  child's  feet  as  it 
shuffles  through  the  crisp,  fallen  leaves.  These 
two  winds  were  spirits,  without  shape  to  human 
eyes ;  and  yet  a  dreamer — a  musician,  perhaps, 
seated  at  the  organ,  alone  with  sorrow — might 
have  imagined  something.  He  might  have 
seen  them — the  first  like  a  gaunt  woman,  with 
flying  robes  and  hair;  the  second  like  a  girl- 
child,  with  an  old  man's  malice  and  a  devil's 
cruelty  in  her  look,  and  to  the  dreamer  their 
voices  might  have  grown  articulate. 

"Perdita,"  said  the  young  wind,  as  side  by 
side  they  sped  onward  into  the  night,  "  did  you 
not  see  as  we  went  past  the  house?  In  one  of 
the  rooms  a  child  is  lying ;  a  beautiful  child, 
and  she  is  dead ;  I  shook  the  window  to  frighten 
her,  but  she  never  moved.  Can  I  not  do  any- 
thing to  hurt  her?  I  hate  all  beautiful  things." 

"No,  we  can  do  nothing,  Ira.     I,  too,  used 


94  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

to  hate  as  you  hate,  but  with  me  it  has  worn 
itself  out.  I  am  tired,  and  cold,  and  miserable. 
But  there  is  no  rest — no  rest  anywhere.  We 
can  do  nothing  to  hurt  that  child  and  nothing 
to  help  her.  She  is  dead." 

"  I  would  help  no  one,  but  I  would  hurt  her. 
Can  we  not  reach  her,  even  though  she  be  dead  ? 
What  is  death?" 

Perdita  seemed  now  to  be  speaking  to  herself 
rather  than  Ira.  "  It  was  a  thousand  years  ago 
that  they  sent  me  here — they  to  whom  a  thousand 
years  are  but  as  a  day.  Beyond  this  world,  be- 
yond the  tangle  of  which  this  world  is  a  thread, 
I  lived  in  broader  space,  in  brighter  light,  in 
warmer,  clearer  air.  I  do  not  remember  what 
it  was  that  I  did,  but  for  my  punishment  they 
sent  me  here  to  roam  forever  up  and  down.  For 
a  thousand  years  I  have  never  rested ;  I  have 
seen  the  children  of  men  grow  up,  and  fall,  and 
die ;  and  I  have  found  out  many  secrets ;  but  I 
do  not  yet  know  what  death  is." 

"I  too,"  said  Ira,  "came  from  that  place  of 
which  you  speak.  With  me  it  was  but  a  day 
ago ;  yet  I,  too,  cannot  remember  what  it  was 
that  I  did.  But  I  have  been  punished — punished 
Until  there  is  nothing  left  in  me  but  hatred.  I 
long  to  wreck  the  ships  and  tear  down  the 
trees.  Nothing  will  make  me  happy  any  more, 
and  I  am  most  miserable  when  I  destroy.  Yet 
I  cannot  help  longing  to  destroy." 


WHEN  THAT   SWEET   CHILD1  LAY   DEAD      95 

"It  does  not  matter,"  Perdita  answered. 
"  The  longing  will  wear  itself  out.  You  may 
grow  gentle  and  play  with  the  flowers.  That 
will  not  matter  either.  You  will  always  be 
unhappy  and  you  will  never  rest.  Oh,  if  one 
could  rest!  If  one  could  be  still  for  a  little 
while,  only  a  little  while !  " 

"  In  that  great  house  the  child  that  was  dead 
was  still — motionless.  What  is  death?  " 

There  was  a  pause — a  long  pause  before  the 
voice  of  Perdita  spoke  in  reply : 

"Can  it  be?  Can  it  be  that  we  are  already 
dead?  Can  it  be  that  the  punishment  of  which 
we  spoke  was  nothing  else  but  death,  and  that 
death  means  the  torture  of  endless  unrest?  Per- 
haps the  spirit  of  that  child  is  out  in  this  lonely 
night,  suffering  as  we  suffer." 

"I  feared  that  you  would  say  it,"  whispered 
Ira.  "  It  is  quite  true.  This  night  that  child 
is  with  us.  Did  I  want  to  hurt  her?  That  was 
foolish  of  me."  And  Ira  laughed  savagely. 

The  two  winds  sped  on  together,  past  an  iron 
coast,  over  a  dark,  desolate  sea,  and  on  and  on. 
In  the  long  gallery  of  the  house  the  music  was 
changed ;  into  its  sorrow  had  entered  that  tragic 
anger  which  knows  its  own  impotence. 

The  night  had  grown  very  quiet.  The  furi- 
ous winds  had  passed;  the  sky  had  cleared. 
Over  the  wide  lands  lay  the  fallen  snow.  The 


9(3  STORIES  AND    INTERLUDES 

child's  father  had  risen  from  the  organ  and 
opened  one  of  the  windows.  He  stood  there 
looking  out.  Perhaps  it  was  because  he  thought 
of  the  gentleness  of  falling  snow,  or  because  its 
wonderful  whiteness  seemed  almost  like  a  con- 
scious kindness:  but  as  he  looked  out  into  the 
tranquil  night  his  anger  ceased.  Far  off  he 
heard  the  flooded  river  sweep  the  base  of  the 
bridge,  and  the  monotonous  sound  seemed  to 
him  like  a  consolation,  like  a  consoling  voice : 

"  I  am  glad  because  I  draw  near  to  the  sea.  I 
shall  die,  but  I  shall  not  be  really  lost.  It  is 
only  change.  I  give  myself  to  the  sea,  and  in 
return  I  enter  into  its  strength.  The  life  of  a 
man  is  but  the  bandage  that  blinds  his  eyes ; 
and  he  shall  never  see  the  great  secret  until  he 
himself  is  part  of  it.  All  the  rivers  run  into 
the  sea,  and  all  the  lives  run  into  the  life  eternal. 
No  gain  is  greater  than  that  loss  of  self." 

His  own  thoughts  followed  the  voice  of  the 
river.  Could  it  be  that  our  identity,  which  we 
valued  so  much,  was  better  lost?  He  had  no 
patience  to  think  the  thing  out,  but  he  liked 
that  idea  of  all  the  lives  flowing  into  the  life 
eternal.  He  found  himself  believing  in  the 
river's  guess-work ;  or  else  he  had  grown  tran- 
quil under  the  tranquillity  of  the  night ;  or  else, 
perhaps,  this  quietness  was  but  reaction  follow- 
ing upon  action,  and  the  bitterness  of  sorrow 
had  exhausted  itself.  He  cared  very  little  what 


WHEN   THAT   SWEET   CHILD   LAY   DEAD      97 

the  reason  might  be.  He  only  knew  that  he 
was  in  some  wonderful  way  consoled.  Death 
was  not  annihilation.  Death  was  not  punish- 
ment. Death  was  just  the  loss  of  individuality 
and  the  gain  of  something  far  greater;  some- 
thing which  possibly  the  saints  thought  when 
they  spoke  of  perfect  communion  and  of  peace 
that  cannot  be  understood. 

He  turned  instinctively  to  symbolism  and 
analogy.  That  thing  for  which  lovers  long — 
that  total  surrender  of  self  to  the  beloved,  which 
love  ever  desires  and  ever  misses,  is  the  gift  that 
death  has  for  us.  By  death  we  merge  into  that 
fulfilment  which  is  past  words. 

And  past  music? 

He  turned  once  more  to  the  organ — to  that 
mysterious  language  that  can  be  translated  into 
no  known  tongue. 

"And,"  said  Richards,  next  morning,  "as  I 
stood  at  the  fur  end,  he  began  to  play.  You 
won't  believe  me,  Mrs.  Smith,  and  I  can't  hardly 
believe  myself,  but  it  was  one  of  the  'appiest 
toons  I  ever  heard  him  play — regular  light. 
Well,  thinks  I  to  myself,  this  is  queer;  and 
there,  all  of  a  sudden-like,  'e  drops  'is  'ands 
and  bends  'is  'ead  low — this  way — and  begins 
sobbing — great,  gaspin'  sobs.  I  couldn't  bear 
it.  I  come  away.  It  was  too  awful ! " 
7 


VI 
THE  MAGIC  MORNING 

THE  sunlight  fell  with  steady  brightness 
through  the  haze  of  a  hot  morning.  A  breath 
of  wind  came  across  the  heath,  over  the  dusty 
road,  and  down  the  strip  of  scented  garden  that 
lay  in  front  of  the  white  cottage.  It  lingered 
for  a  moment  over  some  very  dark  wall-flowers, 
and  then  passed  through  the  open  window  into 
the  lower  room  on  the  left  of  the  porch,  to  see 
what  Mervyn  Vallend  and  his  young  wife  Joyce 
were  going  to  have  for  breakfast.  The  pale 
yellow  curtains  moved  into  soft  folds  as  the 
wind  passed ;  there  was  no  one  in  the  room.  It 
was  Sunday,  and  breakfast  was  not  till  nine 
o'clock.  The  little  silver  clock — it  had  been  a 
wedding  present,  and  looked  it — showed  that  it 
still  wanted  a  few  minutes  to  nine.  The  break- 
fast-table seemed  appealing  and  rather  solitary ; 
it  was  quite  ready.  Everything  on  it  was  fresh 
and  spotless.  There  were  a  handful  of  loosely- 
made  white  roses  in  a  low  glass  bowl  in  the 
centre ;  the  shaft  of  mote-speckled  light  touched 
the  bright  silver  and  a  crimson  fragrant  heap  of 


THE   MAGIC   MORNING  99 

strawberries.  They  lay  on  their  green  leaves, 
and  hoped  that  Joyce  would  like  them  when 
she  came  downstairs.  It  was  a  pretty  room, 
and  everything  in  it  seemed  very  much  as  it 
should  be. 

Joyce  loved  the  extra  hour  of  rest  on  Sunday 
mornings.  On  week-days  breakfast  was  in- 
clined to  be  rather  a  hurried  affair,  because 
Mervyn  had  to  catch  the  train  which  took  him 
up  to  the  city,  and  Joyce  never  felt  properly 
awake  at  eight  o'clock.  The  extra  hour  made 
all  the  difference.  Just  at  present  she  was  gaz- 
ing meditatively  into  the  looking-glass.  She 
had  a  sweet,  delicate  face,  gray  eyes,  and  soft 
fair  hair.  She  was  trying  to  remember  the 
dream  she  had  had  during  the  night ;  and  only 
had  an  indistinct  idea  that  it  had  been  a  very 
happy  dream.  She  had  been  still  asleep  when 
Mervyn  got  up  to  go  down  to  the  river  for  a 
swim  before  breakfast.  As  she  turned  from 
the  looking-glass  she  saw  through  the  window 
across  the  heath ;  Mervyn  was  coming  back 
along  the  narrow  track  that  wound  through  the 
golden  broom  and  brambles  with  wet  glistening 
leaves.  Joyce  turned  again  to  the  looking-glass 
for  a  second,  made  some  imperceptible  feminine 
alteration,  and  then  ran  lightly  downstairs,  and 
stood  in  the  porch  waiting  for  him.  She  had  a 
slight  tremble  at  her  heart;  and  a  reason  for  it. 
She  had  only  been  married  two  years,  and  yet 


100  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

last  night  she  had  nearly  hated  Mervyn.  She 
did  not  hate  him  now. 

He  came  slowly  and  easily  over  the  heath. 
He  was  wearing  flannels.  His  towel  was  flung 
over  his  shoulder.  His  cap  was  pushed  at  the 
back  of  his  untidy  brown  hair.  His  face  was 
thin  and  sunburnt.  He  was  tall  and  straight, 
and  looked  younger  than  he  really  was.  He, 
too,  was  wondering  at  the  change  this  magic 
morning  had  made  in  him.  For  last  night  he 
had  thought,  almost  with  despair,  that  he 
should  never  love  Joyce  any  more. 

Yet  nothing  unusual  had  happened  to  bring 
about  the  sad  state  of  things  which  had  existed 
on  the  Saturday.  Had  anything  unusual  hap- 
pened, all  might  have  been  well;  for  they  had 
the  sensitive  temperament  which  is  irritated  by 
the  persistently  ordinary  and  is  attracted  by 
the  unusual.  They  had  both  of  them,  from  the 
very  first,  been  rather  too  much  inclined  to 
think  that  things  would  be  different  with  them 
than  with  other  people.  They  had  expected 
love's  ecstasy  to  last ;  to  be  always  together,  and 
apart  from  the  rest  of  the  world ;  to  live  in  a 
continuous  exaltation  of  spirit ;  to  have  a  per- 
petual summer — gentle,  cultured,  and  idyllic — 
in  the  white  cottage,  away  from  the  dirt  and 
din  of  the  city.  In  a  word,  they  had  quite  for- 
gotten about  action  and  reaction ;  they  had  been 
a  little  too  self-conscious.  They  were  not  prigs ; 


THE  MAGIC 

Mervyn  was  too  masculine  and  Joyce  was  too 
feminine  for  that ;  besides,  an  absence  of  con- 
ceit and  the  presence  of  a  sense  of  humor  saved 
both  of  them  from  being  prigs.  But  in  the 
ecstasy  of  their  love  for  each  other  a  little  of 
their  common  sense  had  evaporated.  Even  the 
arrangement  of  the  furniture  in  the  white  cot- 
tage was  rather  sentimental. 

And  the  ecstasy  had  not  lasted.  It  never 
lasts.  So  surely  as  you  go  upward  from  one 
side  of  the  hill,  you  must,  when  you  have 
reached  the  summit,  go  downward  on  the  other. 
There  are  those  who  have  grown  bitter  about 
this  necessity.  And  yet  it  is  sometimes  very 
pleasant  and  quiet  in  the  valley.  Mervyn  and 
Joyce  had  not  quite  got  down  into  the  valley 
yet,  and  were  feeling  rather  lost.  For  a  few 
months  after  their  marriage,  Mervyn  had  gone 
on  making  fresh  and  exquisite  discoveries  in 
Joyce's  nature;  chance  words  of  hers,  little 
gestures,  her  choice  of  flowers  and  music,  seemed 
to  illuminate  the  reason  why  she  was  so  lovable. 
Then  he  reached  the  point  when  there  seemed 
to  be  no  more  discoveries  to  make.  She  was 
like  a  beautiful  prayer  or  poem  that  has  been 
learned  by  heart  and  has  been  said  so  often  that 
it  has  lost  its  meaning.  And  there  were  besides 
a  few  disillusions.  She  was  too  human  to  be 
quite  perfect.  Just  that  turn  of  her  tempera- 
ment which  made  her  love  the  fanciful  stories 


AND   INTERLUDES 


and  verses  that  Mervyn  wrote  from  time  to 
time  also  made  her  a  little  unpractical.  Some- 
times she  forgot  how  much  the  most  spiritual 
happiness  depends  on  the  most  material  things. 
At  first,  Mervyn  had  thought  nothing  of  occa- 
sional discomfort  ;  but  there  came  a  time  when 
he  noticed  it.  Joyce  was  delicate;  it  was  for 
this  reason  that  Mervyn  had  taken  the  white 
cottage;  and  sometimes,  when  he  got  back  from 
the  city,  Joyce  was  too  tired  to  take  much  notice 
of  him  —  to  sing  to  him  or  talk  to  him.  Then 
he  would  reproach  himself  for  not  being  able  to 
take  more  care  of  her,  for  not  being  able  to  give 
her  a  more  easeful  and  luxurious  life,  for  not 
having  waited  until  he  had  secured  a  better 
position  before  he  married  her.  For  Mervyn 
was  not  mad  enough  to  think  that  he  could  live 
by  writing  fanciful  verses  ;  they  only  were  one 
of  his  pleasures;  as  far  as  business  was  con- 
cerned, he  was  the  least  possible  partner  in  his 
father's  uurom  antic  firm.  He  would  be  a  fairly 
rich  man  one  day;  but  at  present  he  was  poor 
enough  to  find  himself  frequently  irritated  by 
limitations.  Sometimes  the  thought  had  passed 
through  him  swiftly,  and  the  night  before  it 
had  not  passed,  but  had  lingered  on  and  on  — 
perhaps  it  would  have  been  better  if  he  had 
not  married  Joyce  ;  Joyce  was  not  fitted  to  be 
the  wife  of  a  poor  man.  Last  night  he  had 
feared  that  his  love  for  her  was  slowly  wearing 


THE   MAGIC   MORNING  103 

itself  out.  She,  too,  had  been  through  similar 
experiences;  she  had  begun  to  think  that  she 
was  losing  his  sympathy ;  she  did  little  things  on 
purpose  to  please  him,  and  he  never  noticed 
them.  Besides,  it  was  rather  lonely  in  the 
white  cottage  when  Mervyn  was  away  in  the 
city ;  and  she  hated  the  work  of  housekeeping, 
though  she  did  it  as  faithfully  as  she  could. 
And  there  were  small  worries  which  tried  her 
and  made  her  fear  that  she  was  losing  her  sweet 
temper.  She  had  cried  herself  to  sleep  on  Sat- 
urday night,  being  filled  with  the  idea  that 
Mervyn  would  have  been  much  happier  if  he 
had  married  a  capital  housemaid. 

They  had  not  openly  quarrelled.  On  the 
Saturday  afternoon  Mervyn  got  back  from  the 
city  rather  earlier  than  he  had  expected ;  he  was 
hot  and  irritated  by  some  petty  business  wor- 
ries. He  found  the  white  cottage  rather  dish- 
evelled. An  unclean  charwoman  was  defiling 
the  staircase  with  her  presence.  Joyce  had 
been  doing  accounts ;  and  the  accounts  were  all 
wrong ;  and  her  fingers  were  all  inky.  She  had 
a  headache,  and  was  depressed,  and  not  in- 
clined to  make  very  much  of  Mervyn.  He 
walked  to  the  looking-glass  and  found  that  he 
had  a  smut  on  his  nose.  It  had  probably  been 
there  all  the  hateful  morning.  He  swore  gently 
under  his  breath  ;  Joyce  heard  him  and  looked 
hurt.  He  repented,  and  asked  her  to  come  out. 


104  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

She  reminded  him  that  she  had  the  accounts  to 
do.  He  told  her,  rather  self -righteously,  that 
she  should  have  got  the  accounts  done  before. 
She,  looking  as  if  she  were  being  burned  at  the 
stake,  but  was  determined  not  to  mind  it,  re- 
plied that  she  had  a  headache.  One  knows 
how  such  conversations  end.  Saturday  evening 
was  passed  almost  in  silence.  It  was  all  child- 
ish enough,  but  troubles  do  not  have  to  be 
rational  to  be  troublesome.  And  these  childish 
troubles  had  started  in  both  of  them  a  most  per- 
nicious train  of  thought,  ending  in  the  entirely 
unfounded  belief  that  they  were  not  suited  for 
each  other,  and  did  not  love  each  other.  But 
now  all  these  troubles  were  yesterday's  delu- 
sions; they  could  not  stand  before  this  magic 
morning. 

Mervyn  had  paused  a  second  just  before  leav- 
ing the  bedroom  to  go  down  to  the  river,  and 
had  turned  back  to  look  at  his  sleeping  wife. 
There  was  a  look  on  her  face  that  he  had  never 
seen  there  before ;  it  was  a  look  to  win  love  and 
reverence ;  it  was  the  dignity  of  a  sleeping  Ma- 
donna. He  took  off  his  cap  and,  bending  over 
her,  kissed  her  on  the  forehead — gently  so  as 
not  to  wake  her.  Then  he  went  downstairs,  and 
out  through  the  porch,  and  up  the  narrow  strip 
of  garden.  Yes,  the  weather  was  glorious ;  but 
mere  weather  was  not  enough  to  account  for 


THE   MAGIC    MORNING  105 

the  splendid  exhilaration  that  filled  him.  He 
felt  that  he  liked  everything  immensely.  He 
watched  the  bees  busy  at  the  work  that  had 
been  given  them;  he  caught  the  fragrance  of 
the  dark  wall-flowers;  he  heard  the  repeated 
calls  of  the  birds — the  clear  tremble,  rise 
and  fall  of  their  music.  It  was  all  old;  it 
had  all  been  so  before ;  yet  now  there  was  a  new 
wonder  in  it.  There  was  a  new  delight  in  the 
refreshing  plunge  into  the  cold  river,  and  the 
long,  steady  swim  up  against  the  stream.  He 
was  still  thinking  of  this  as  he  came  back  across 
the  heath.  He  seemed  to  have  an  excess  of 
strength  and  spirit,  a  fresh  power  of  enjoyment. 
As  he  entered  the  garden  he  looked  up  and  saw 
Joyce — a  sweet,  graceful  figure  in  gray  and 
white — standing  in  the  porch.  There  was  a 
light  in  her  eyes  which  showed  him  that  she 
too  had  felt  the  magic  of  the  morning.  Both 
knew  that  there  was  sympathy  again  between 
them.  She  gave  him  both  hands,  and  he  kissed 
her ;  it  was  the  kiss  of  a  glad  lover — not  the  per- 
functory, matrimonial  kiss. 

As  .they  sat  down  to  breakfast,  both  of  them 
could  hardly  help  laughing ;  they  were  so  pleased 
at  nothing.  They  refrained,  however,  owing 
to  the  notion — for  which  something  might  have 
been  said — that  such  conduct  would  be  slightly 
idiotic.  Mervyn  removed  a  cover : 


106  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

"That,"  he  said,  "is  routine — sheer  routine." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Joyce,  "  it's  only  poached  eggs 
— nothing  worse,  I  assure  you." 

"  I  meant  the  number,  Joyce.  Don't  you  see 
— the  mystic  number  three?  Anna  Martha  has 
absolutely  no  variableness,  and  she  won't  allow 
for  it  in  other  people.  She  knows  that  I  gen- 
erally eat  two  and  you  generally  eat  one.  So 
she  expects  us  always  to  do  that,  and  always 
sends  os  just  exactly  three.  She's  cast  a  sort 
of  spell  over  me,  and  I  find  myself  eating  two 
eggs  when  I  only  want  one,  simply  to  satisfy 
the  passion  for  regularity  in  Anna  Martha.  I'm 
not  going  to  stand  it  any  longer.  To-day  I  will 
only  eat  one  and  you  shall  eat  two ;  and  that 
will  break  Anna  Martha's  clockwork  heart." 

"But  I  don't  see  how  she's  to  know,  unless 
you  tell  her,  which  of  us  had  two." 

"  That's  true,  Joyce,  horribly  true,  and  I  cer- 
tainly daren't  tell  her.  Well,  I  must  get  out  of 
the  groove,  somehow.  I  might  do  it  by  not 
eating  any  at  all,  only  I  happen  to  be  distinctly 
hungry,"  he  added,  as  he  helped  himself. 

They  did  not  always  talk  such  utter  nonsense 
as  this ;  for  both  Joyce  and  Mervyn  had  as  much 
intellect  as  the  average  man — and  perhaps 
keener  appreciation.  But  this  morning  they 
were  talking  nonsense  with  a  set  purpose ;  and 
yet  neither  of  them  had  any  notion  that  they 
were  talking  with  a  set  purpose  at  all.  This 


THE  MAGIC  MORNING  107 

happens  rather  more  frequently  than  is  generally 
supposed.  Underneath  the  words  of  both  of 
them  lay — quite  unconsciously — this  thought: 
"  We  must  not  let  our  minds  dwell  for  a  moment 
on  yesterday ;  what  took  place  then  was  all  a 
mistake,  and  too  horrible  to  think  about;  we 
must  forget  it,  and  show  that  we  have  forgotten 
it  by  being  cheerful. " 

"  I've  got  a  new  dress  on  to-day,"  said  Joyce, 
presently.  "  Do  you  like  it?  " 

"Yes;  I  had  been  adoring  in  silence.  It 
really  is  a  lovable  sort  of  a  clothing."  He 
paused  for  a  second.  "  Talking  of  new  things, " 
he  added,  "when  I  was  going  down  to  the 
river  this  morning,  I  stopped  for  a  second  to 
look  at  you,  and,  really,  there  was  something — 
something  indescribable — in  your  face  that  I 
had  never  seen  there  before. " 

Joyce's  gray  eyes  opened  a  little  wider. 
"How?  What  do  you  mean?  How  did  I 
look?  " 

"Different." 

"  Improved — better?  " 

"Happier — a  saintly  sort  of  happiness." 

"  And  it's  not  so  easy  to  look  happy  either, 
with  your  eyes  shut.  I — I  had  the  loveliest 
dream.  Of  course  I  have  forgotten  what  it 
was  all  about;  I  always  forget  dreams.  But 
perhaps  I  was  just  dreaming  it  when  you  looked 
at  me." 


108  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

"  Perhaps.  I'm  afraid  it's  one  of  the  things 
we  aren't  going  to  know  for  certain." 

"Did  you "  Joyce  paused  irresolutely. 

"  No,  nothing,"  she  added.  "  Have  some  more 
strawberries?  " 

Mervyn  laughed  a  little.  "Yes,  I  did,"  he 
said.  "  I  hope  it  didn't  wake  you.  I  tried  not 
to  wake  you." 

"No,  it  didn't  wake  me.  I'm  glad.  How 
on  earth  did  you  know  what  I  was  going  to  ask 
you?  I  only  said  two  words  of  it." 

"Your  eyes  said  the  rest." 

"  Joyce, "  he  added  presently,  rising  from  the 
table,  "do  you  think  we  are  going  to  church 
this  morning?  " 

Joyce  also  rose.  She  walked  to  the  window 
and  looked  out.  "  I  feel  quite  sure  that  we  are 
going  to  church  this  evening ;  but  this  morning 
is  too  fine,  and  it  would  be  too  hot  in  church. 
I  think  we  will  go  out  into  the  open  air  and  sit 
down  somewhere.  You  shall  take  a  book  with 
you,  and  the  cooler  of  the  two — whichever  it 
may  be — shall  read  to  the  hotter." 

"  Which  way  shall  we  go?  "  asked  Mervyn,  as 
shortly  afterward  they  passed  through  the  gar- 
den gate  out  on  to  the  high-road. 

"  Up  on  to  the  hills.  It  will  suit  a  queer  kind 
of  exaltation  that  I'm  feeling  this  morning. 
I  suppose  it  is  because  it  is  such  glorious 
weather." 


THE   MAGIC   MORNING  109 

"  Yes ;  it's  a  magic  morning. " 

"Magic!  That's  just  the  word  for  it.  It 
changes  everything;  quite  common  things  do 
not  seem  common  any  longer.  Look  at  that 
golden  broom  there  with  the  light  on  it,  just  on 
the  edge  of  the  heath.  It's  the  ordinariest 
golden  broom,  but  it's  simply  beautiful,  and  I 
love  it — I  could  kiss  it." 

"Do,"  said  Mervyn.  "I'm  not  going  to  be 
jealous  of  a  wretched  vegetable ;  and  there's  no 
one  coming.  Do,  by  all  means." 

"  It  wouldn't  be  a  very  sane  sort  of  thing  to 
do,  I  own;  but  then  that's  where  the  magic 
comes  in.  It's  all  the  weather;  now  yester- 
day " 

She  stopped  short.  She  had  only  been  intend- 
ing to  speak  of  yesterday's  weather,  but  yester- 
day did  not  stand  speaking  about,  or  even 
thinking  about,  just  yet. 

They  went  up  the  hill-side.  The  bracken 
was  waist-high — a  sea  of  pale  green  rippling  to 
the  slightest  wind.  Below  its  graceful  stems 
lay  the  old  bracken,  brown  and  faded.  On  the 
fine  sand  of  the  pathway  a  thousand  tiny  insects 
hurried  to  and  fro.  Joyce  had  gathered  two  or 
three  wild  white  roses  from  a  hedge  that  they 
had  passed,  and  was  fastening  them  affection- 
ately in  her  dress.  In  the  distance  they  could 
hear  the  church  bells  just  beginning;  they 
sounded  more  sweetly  and  more  musically  than 


110  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

when  one  heard  them  in  the  village  street;  in- 
deed, they  suggested  distance,  far-awayness, 
remoteness ;  they  awoke  in  Joyce  a  feeling  of 
sad  longing,  the  "desiderium"  of  the  Latins, 
the  "  7ro0o9  "  of  the  Greeks — a  feeling  for  which  a 
more  prosaic  nation  has  no  one  exact  word.  For 
a  time  the  two  walked  on  in  silence ;  then  they 
sat  down  in  the  shadow ;  a  fallen  tree  seemed  to 
have  fallen  on  purpose  for  their  convenience. 
And  because  Joyce  was  a  little  tired  with  her 
walk,  it  was  Mervyn  who  read ;  his  voice  was 
low  and  monotonous.  Perhaps  he  was  almost 
too  careful  not  to  be  declamatory ;  but  his  read- 
ing was  intelligent.  It  was  rather  a  sad  story 
that  he  was  reading ;  these  were  the  last  words 
of  it: 

"  Not  only  was  his  character  entirely  cleared. 
It  was  thought  that  he  had  undergone  very 
much,  and  had  done  so  for  a  very  noble  motive. 
He  was  admired — indeed,  almost  worshipped; 
and  his  book  brought  him  fresh  honor ;  it  was 
praised  everywhere  and  bought  everywhere; 
almost  every  post  brought  him  letters  from  peo- 
ple of  whom  he  had  never  heard  before,  telling 
him  of  the  pleasure  or  the  consolation  that  they 
had  found  in  his  work.  He  had  won  reputation 
and  the  love  of  many.  He  had  wealth  now, 
and  the  life  of  ease  and  luxury  was  possible  to 
him.  That  was  why  in  all  the  city  there  was 
not  one  as  unhappy  as  he," 


THE  MAGIC   MORNING  111 

There  was,  perhaps,  some  truth  in  this.  The 
man  in  the  story  had  missed  the  one  thing  that 
he  wanted  most;  and  the  gain  of  the  other 
things  that  he  had  always  wanted  so  much  less 
was  only  another  bitterness  to  him.  There  was 
some  truth  in  it,  because  after  all  we  are  the 
merest  children,  and  if  we  cannot  have  just  what 
we  want,  we  are  very  much  inclined  to  say  that 
we  will  not  play,  and  to  sulk  in  a  corner. 

Joyce  had  heard  the  story  before,  and  she 
liked  it  at  times.  In  more  critical  moments 
she  could  see  that  it  was  wanting  in  brightness 
and  strenuity.  The  author  of  it  was  very 
young,  and  had  not  learned  that  you  must  have 
a  light  to  see  the  darkness  by.  But  the  story 
fitted  her  present  mood ;  it  seemed  to  suit  their 
height  above  the  village  and  their  sense  of  dis- 
tance. It  is  hard  to  sympathize  with  the  sor- 
rows to  which  one  is  nearest.  Yet  it  was  not  a 
morning  on  which  Joyce  could  stay  long  in  the 
air  of  sorrowful  sentimentality;  her  thoughts 
strayed  from  the  sad  story  to  other  and  happier 
things.  Mervyn  had  put  the  book  down  and 
was  stretched  at  her  feet ;  he  was  rolling  a 
cigarette  and  taking  a  lazy  man's  trouble  about 
it ;  he  lit  it  and  smoked  for  some  time  in  silence. 
All  manner  of  quaint  little  summer  sounds  were 
going  on  around  them — chirp  and  twitter,  nutter 
of  wings,  buzzing  of  insects,  rustle  of  branches. 

Presently  he  happened  to  look  up  into  his 


112  STORIES   AND    INTERLUDES 

wife's  face.  "Joyce,"  he  said,  "can  you  tell 
me  what  you  were  thinking  about  then?" 

She  hesitated  a  second,  and  then  looked  away 
from  him.  "  No,  dear,  I  don't  think  I  can  tell 
you.  Why?" 

"  Because  you  had  that  look  again — the  new 
look — that  you  had  when  I  kissed  you  in  your 
sleep  this  morning." 

"This  morning — this  magic  morning,"  she 
echoed  softly.  "  No,  it's  not  only  the  weather; 
I  don't  know  what  it  is." 

They  walked  home,  back  to  the  white  cottage, 
in  silence.  On  Sunday  they  dined  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  day  because  it  suited  Anna  Martha 
better ;  in  merely  material  matters  they  generally 
arranged  themselves  as  might  suit  Anna  Mar- 
tha best.  The  afternoon  passed  drowsily  away ; 
Joyce  read  books  in  a  hammock  that  was 
stretched  between  two  trees  in  the  garden  at 
the  back  of  the  house ;  Mervyn  smoked  many 
cigarettes  and  went  for  a  short  walk.  And  in 
the  evening  they  went  to  church ;  it  was  not  an 
evening  on  which  either  of  them  was  in  a  mood 
to  criticise  very  severely.  The  curate  meant  to 
be  quite  right ;  so  did  the  choir  of  village  boys ; 
so  did  the  organ,  a  very  poor  instrument.  They 
all  meant  to  be  quite  right,  and  the  rest  did  not 
seem  to  matter  very  much. 

Later  in  the  evening  Joyce  played  the  piano 
for  Mervyn,  and  he  sat  and  watched  her. 


THE   MAGIC   MORNING  113 

She  looked  very  sweet  and  delicate  in  the  can- 
dle-light. She  was  playing  from  memory,  and 
her  thoughtful  eyes  were  half  closed.  Her 
hands,  moving  over  the  keys,  were  small  and 
white  and  beautiful.  Outside,  beyond  the 
trees,  one  could  see  the  crescent  moon  in  a  sky 
that  was  still  thinking  about  the  daylight  that 
had  gone  but  an  hour  ago.  The  music  that  she 
had  been  playing  had  suited  well  the  fall  of 
night,  and  the  recollection  of  worship,  and  all 
gentle  thoughts.  She  paused  a  moment,  and 
then  began  to  play  the  second  movement  of 
Beethoven's  E-minor  Sonata,  the  converse  of  the 
lovers.  He  waited  until  she  had  finished,  and 
then  he  spoke : 

"Joyce,  dearest,  I  don't  know  how  it  hap- 
pened, but  yesterday  I  did  not  love  you.  It 
won't  ever  happen  again.  I  love  you  now." 

Joyce  looked  down  at  her  hands,  resting  on 
the  keys.  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  "I 
knew,"  she  said,  almost  in  a  whisper,  "and  I 
did  not  love  you  then." 

"And  now?" 

"Very — very  much."  She  put  out  the  can- 
dles at  the  piano,  and  in  a  moment  she  was 
close  to  him  in  the  dusk,  with  her  head  upon 
his  shoulder.  "Mervyn,  my  dear  husband," 
she  said,  "I — I've  got  something  to  tell  you." 
8 


MY  LADY'S  LILIES 

"THEY'RE  full  of  graciousness,"  you  said 
Of  lilies  in  your  garden  growing. 

"  And  you, "  I  answered,  "  you  are  like 
The  fairest  lily  blowing." 

To  you  the  simile  was  naught; 

It  was  too  trite — it  did  not  strike  you. 
But  weren't  the  lilies  mad  with  joy 

At  hearing  they  were  like  you ! 


VII 
"JADIS" 

OVER  the  flat  fen  country  there  were  white 
mists  rising.  It  was  already  growing  dusk,  but 
it  was  not  going  to  be  very  dark  this  summer 
night.  The  weeds  had  been  cut,  and  drifted 
down  stream  in  thick  masses.  A  thin  middle- 
aged  man  stood  by  the  lock-gates,  watching  an 
approaching  boat.  He  was  dressed  in  country 
clothes,  but  he  had  not  the  air  of  a  country- 
man ;  he  was  pale  and  had  a  look  of  experience. 
Save  for  the  regular  sound  of  the  sculls,  every- 
thing was  quite  still.  Save  for  the  man  at  the 
lock-gates  and  the  solitary  occupant  of  the  boat, 
there  was  no  one  in  sight.  It  was  a  wide,  flat, 
desolate  scene. 

The  boat  was  rather  a  heavy  tub,  and  the 
man  who  was  sculling  was  tired  and  out  of 
temper.  As  a  rule  he  was  thought  to  be  a  dis- 
tinctly brilliant  and  genial  young  man ;  but  he 
wanted  to  get  on  to  Nunnisham,  which  was 
five  miles  beyond  the  lock,  that  night,  and  he 
had  been  considerably  delayed  by  the  weeds. 
The  gods  had  given  him  extraordinarily  good 


116  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

looks  and  many  other  good  things,  enough  to 
keep  him  genial  unless,  as  on  the  present  occa- 
sion, circumstances  tried  him  severely.  At  the 
lock  he  drew  into  the  bank  and  hailed  the  mid- 
dle-aged man  who  still  stood  watching  him. 

"  Hi !  what  are  the  weeds  like  above  the  lock?  " 

"  Very  bad,  sir. "  The  answer  was  given  in 
a  serious,  respectful  voice. 

The  young  man  swore  gently  to  himself.  "  Is 
there  any  place  near  here  where  I  could  put  up 
for  the  night?  " 

"  There  is  only  a  public-house,  sir.  I  am  the 
landlord  of  it — my  name  is  Hill.  I  could  give 
you  a  bedroom ;  a  little  rough,  perhaps,  but " 

"Good — a  bed  and  some  supper — capital! 
That  is  the  only  bit  of  luck  I've  had  to-day." 
As  he  was  speaking  the  young  man  picked  up 
a  small  knapsack  which  was  lying  in  the  stern 
of  the  boat  and  jumped  out.  He  made  the  boat 
fast,  and  joined  the  landlord  on  the  towing-path. 

"  It  is  this  way.  You  will  allow  me  to  carry 
that  for  you,  sir." 

As  they  walked  along,  the  brilliant  'young 
man — his  name  was  Philip  Vince — chatted 
freely.  He  was  taking  a  holiday  up  the  river, 
and  was  to  have  joined  a  friend  at  Nunnisham 
that  night  and  then  gone  on  with  him  the  day 
after.  He  told  the  landlord  all  this,  and  also 
surmised  that  Hill  was  not  a  native  of  the  fen 
country. 


117 

"No,  sir,"  was  the  answer.  "I  was  valet  to 
Sir  Charles  Sulmont.  You  have  perhaps  heard 
of  him." 

Philip  had  never  heard  of  him,  but  said  that 
he  had. 

"  When  Sir  Charles  died  he  left  me  a  little 
money,  and  I  married  a  maid  who  was  then  in 
Lady  Sulmont's  service.  I  bought  this  house 
with  a  little  assistance  from  her  ladyship,  and 
settled  here.  I  was  very  young  then,  and  I  have 
been  here  eighteen  years." 

Philip  gathered  from  further  talk  as  they 
went  along  that  Mrs.  Hill  was  dead,  and  that 
she  had  left  one  child,  Jeanne,  a  girl  of  seven- 
teen, who  lived  with  her  father.  When  they 
reached  the  inn,  Hill  showed  Philip  a  bedroom 
— a  large,  comfortable  room,  and  began  to  make 
some  apology  about  supper.  They  very  rarely 
had  any  one  staying  in  the  house,  and  there 
was  nothing  but Here  Philip  interrupted : 

"  You  would  be  doing  me  a  kindness  if  you 
would  let  me  have  supper  with  you  and  your 
daughter.  I  hate  solitude.  I  mean,  if  your — 
if  Miss  Hill  wouldn't  object." 

"  If  you  really  wish  it,  sir,  I  should  be  very 
pleased;  so  also,  I  am  sure,  would  Jeanne." 
Hill  was  a  born  valet ;  he  had  the  manner ;  if 
he  had  lived  out  of  service  for  a  hundred  years, 
he  would  have  been  a  valet  still.  When  Hill 
left  him,  Philip  looked  round  the  room  and 


118  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

congratulated  himself.  Everything  was  very 
neat  and  clean.  The  landlord  was  a  capital 
fellow — a  little  solemn,  perhaps,  but  still  a  capi- 
tal fellow.  This  was  far  above  the  accommoda- 
tion which  he  had  expected. 

Just  then  a  light  footfall  came  up  the  stairs, 
and  Philip  caught  a  snatch  of  a  French  song. 
The  song  stopped  short  just  before  the  footfall 
passed  his  door.  Philip  conjectured  that  this 
must  be  the  daughter,  and  that  it  had  been  a 
French  maid  that  Hill  had  married ;  hence  the 
name  Jeanne  and  that  snatch  of  song.  Also 
that  the  daughter  had  been  warned  of  his  ar- 
rival, and  had  gone  to  put  on  her  prettiest 
dress.  All  of  these  conjectures  were  quite  cor- 
rect. And  yet  when  Jeanne  entered  the  sitting- 
room  a  few  minutes  afterward  and  saw  Philip 
for  the  first  time,  she  was  so  startled  that  she 
showed  it  slightly.  Philip  was  also  a  little  sur- 
prised, for  a  different  reason,  and  did  not  show 
it  at  all.  He  had  thought  of  the  possibility 
that  Jeanne  might  be  pretty;  and  she  was  a 
beauty — a  brunette,  childlike  in  many  ways, 
but  with  a  woman's  eyes.  Her  voice  was 
good,  and  her  first  few  words  showed  that  she 
had  had  some  education. 

It  took  her  about  ten  minutes  to  get  from  de- 
cided shyness  to  complete  confidence.  Philip 
was  feeling  far  too  good-tempered  to  let  any  one 
be  shy  with  him ;  he  made  Hill  and  his  daugh- 


119 

ter  talk,  and  he  talked  freely  himself.  He  liked 
the  simplicity  of  everything  about  him ;  he  had 
grown  tired  of  formalities  in  London.  He  liked 
cold  beef  and  salad,  for  he  was  very  hungry,  and 
— yes,  above  all,  he  liked  Jeanne.  What  on 
earth  were  that  face  and  that  manner  doing  in 
a  riverside  inn  ?  She  was  perfect ;  she  did  not 
apologize  too  much,  did  not  get  flurried,  did 
not  have  red  hands,  spoke  correctly,  laughed 
charmingly  —  in  a  word,  was  bewitching. 
Really,  he  was  glad  that  he  had  been  prevented 
from  going  on  to  Nunnisham.  Toward  the  end 
of  supper,  he  discovered  that  she  was  wearing 
a  white  dress  with  forget-me-nots  in  it. 

The  table  was  cleared  by  a  native  servant,  who 
seemed  all  red  cheeks  and  new  boots.  Hill 
went  off  to  superintend  the  business  of  the  inn. 
Philip  was  left  alone  with  Jeanne.  She  told 
him  to  smoke,  and  he  was  obedient;  he  also 
made  her  tell  him  other  things. 

Yes,  she  had  been  to  school  at  Nunnisham — 
rather  too  good  a  school  for  her,  she  was  afraid ; 
but  her  mother  had  wished  it.  Her  mother 
had  taught  her  French  and  a  little  music. 
Music  and  drawing  were  the  best  things,  she 
thought;  but  she  liked  some  books.  She  owned 
that  it  was  lonely,  sometimes,  at  the  inn.  "  I 
am  glad  you  came,"  she  confessed  frankly. 

"Jeanne,"  said  Philip,  "I  heard  you  hum- 
ming a  line  or  two  of  * Jadis'  before  supper, 


120  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

didn't  I?  I  wish  you  would  sing  it  to  me." 
She  agreed  at  once,  crossing  the  room  to  a  little 
cottage  piano — rather  a  worn-out  instrument, 
but  still  a  piano.  The  melody  —  plaintive, 
gentle,  childish — of  Jeanne's  sweet  voice,  and 
the  sadness  of  the  words,  with  their  quaint,  pen- 
sive refrain,  did  not  miss  their  effect. 

"  Je  n'attends  plus  rien  ici-bas  ; 
Bonheur  perdu  ne  revient  pas, 
Et  mon  coeur  ne  demande  au  ciel 
Qu'un  repos  eternel. " 

He  thanked  her;  he  had  liked  that  very 
much.  "Why,"  he  added,  "were  you  startled 
when  you  saw  me?  " 

"  Because  you  are  a  dream  come  true.  I  saw 
your  face  in  a  dream  last  night — as  clearly  as  I 
see  you  now.  All  this  time  I  have  been  feeling 
as  if  I  had  known  you  before." 

"  Really  ?  "  he  said.  He  had  not  quite  believed 
it.  "  How  many  things  come  true !  One  says 
things  about  the  shortness  of  time  or  the  cer- 
tainty of  death  so  often  that  they  lose  all  mean- 
ing ;  then  when  one  grows  old  or  lies  dying,  the 
platitudes  get  to  have  terrible  force — they  come 
true." 

She  was  struck  by  that;  she  kept  her  eyes 
fixed  on  his,  and  he  went  on  talking  to  her.  He 
did  not,  as  the  time  wore  on,  always  mean 
quite  so  much  as  he  said ;  and  she  meant  much 


121 

more  than  she  said.  That  is  a  common  differ- 
ence between  a  man  and  a  woman  on  such  occa- 
sions. It  seemed  to  her  that  now  for  the  first 
time  she  really  lived. 

After  Jeanne  had  said  good-night,  Philip 
had  some  chat  with  her  father  about  her. 

"  I  expect  that  she  will  be  engaged  very  soon, 
sir,"  he  said;  "a  young  man  called  Banks — 
William  Banks — is  anxious,  and  has  spoken  to 
me ;  and  she  likes  him. " 

"Now,  I  wonder,"  thought  Philip  to  himself 
as  he  went  upstairs,  "  why  she  never  even  hinted 
that  to  me.  'M — yes,  I  see." 

Next  morning  after  breakfast  he  went  away, 
taking  with  him  a  few  forget-me-nots,  a  pleasant 
memory,  and  just  the  faintest  possible  feeling 
of  remorse.  They  all  faded. 

Jeanne  had  seemed  so  quiet  and  depressed  of 
late  that  her  father,  in  order  to  cheer  her  up, 
had  invited  Mr.  William  Banks  to  spend  the 
evening. 

Mr.  Banks  was  a  small  shopkeeper  in  Nun- 
nisham,  and  considered  to  be  no  mean  wag  by 
those  who  knew  him.  Yet  he  felt  unable  to 
cheer  her  up.  "  Supposing  we  had  a  bit  of  a 
toon,  Jenny,"  he  suggested  at  last.  She  was 
quite  docile.  She  played  one  thing  after  an- 
other. Suddenly  she  began  "  Jadis." 

"I  don't  understand   French  myself,"   Mr. 


122  STORIES  AND  INTERLUDES 

Banks  remarked,  "but  the  words  of  a  song 
don't  matter."  She  had  never  thought  much 
about  the  words  herself  before.  But  now? 

"Depuis  qu'il  a  trahi  sa  foi 
Rien  n'a  plus  de  charme  pour  moi." 

Her  voica  faltered  a  little,  but  she  sang  on  to 
the  end  of  the  verse : 

"  Et  mon  coeur  ne  demande  au  ciel 
Qu'un  repos  eternel." 

Yes,  the  song  had  "  come  true."  Just  there  she 
gave  way  and  began  to  cry  a  little. 

A  week  afterward  Mr.  Banks  announced  that 
his  attentions  to  Miss  Hill  were  at  an  end. 


THE  BIRD  CAGE 

THERE  is  a  cage  of  many  a  bird 

Hung  up  in  space  by  Natural  Law ; 
Doves  coo,  the  peacock  is  absurd, 

Swans  .sing  and  die,  and  black  rooks  caw ; 
The  fighting  cock  is  killed  or  wins, 

Peewits  peewit,  and  pouters  pout ; 
The  ostrich  feeds  on  sardine  tins, 

And  they  can  none  of  them  get  out. 
That's  what  the  noise  is  all  about ; 

They  want  to,  but  they  can't  get  out. 

The  cage  has  many  thousand  bars ; 

Each  bar's  a  scientific  fact ; 
Through  these  they  watch  the  shooting  stars, 

And  get  emotion  from  the  act. 
But  one  owl  says  the  stars  aren't  there, 

But  in  the  eyes  that  watch  them  fall ; 
"  And  eyes,  however  fine  a  pair, 

Don't  as  a  fact  exist  at  all. 
These  bars  that  make  our  prison  wall 

Are  but  phenomena — that's  all." 


124  STORIES   AND    INTERLUDES 

That  doesn't  stop  them,  not  a  bit; 

The  skylark  sings,  and  beats  his  breast 
Against  a  bar,  and  stunned  by  it, 

Drops  down  to  die  and  to  protest. 
As  panting  in  the  cage  he  lies, 

The  glory  of  a  shooting  star 
Drops  splendor  down  the  dazzled  skies, 

Where  dreams  and  their  cloud-chambers  are. 
"  And  oh,"  he  cries,  "to  fly  so  far 

Where  dreams  and  bright  star-glories  are !  " 

"Tu-whit!  the  little  brute  is  dead; 

That  will  be  one  star-gazer  less. " 
These  are  the  words  the  great  owl  said ; 

The  others  cry,  "Oh,  yes!  oh,  yes!" 
But  one  sweet- voiced  and  golden  brown 

Croons  o'er  the  lark  a  plaintive  song : 
"  Though  the  claws  are  crossed  and  the  wings 
droop  down, 

And  the  breast  is  still,  it  is  not  for  long. 
His  voice  was  sweet  and  his  wings  were  strong, 

Surely  he  will  awake  ere  long." 

"Quite  right,"   the   duck   quacks,  "there  are 
germs 

Of  life  when  life  seems  wholly  gone. 
The  lark  will  do  to  feed  the  worms, 

And  worms  are  good  to  feed  upon." 
"  That's  splendid !  "  all  the  owls  reply, 

"Our  life  from  death  its  substance  draws; 
A  skylark  should  be  glad  to  die, 


THE   BIRD    CAGE  125 

And  make  us  fat  by  Natural  Laws. 
You  and  the  rooks  with  their  First  Caws, 
Are  getting  on  in  Natural  Laws." 

Ages  are  past,  the  cage  is  there, 

But  now  to  suffocation  packed, 
The  dying  cry  for  light  and  air, 

With  quavering  notes  that  thirst  has  cracked. 
The  living  beat  against  the  bars, 

Bedewed  with  tears,  begrimed  with  jest, 
In  mad  desire  to  join  the  stars, 

To  fly  away  and  be  at  rest. 
The  down  falls  from  their  wounded  breast; 

They  die — and  no  one  knows  the  rest. 


VIII 
THE  DOG  THAT  GOT  FOUND 

THERE  was  a  dog  once  that  got  to  be  utterly 
sick  of  conventionality.  It  lived  in  a  great 
house,  had  proper  exercise,  proper  food,  a  prop- 
er control  over  its  temper,  and  everything  quite 
proper.  And  after  a  time  things  got  so  bad  that 
it  made  its  complaint  to  the  butler,  who  had 
condescended  to  take  it  out  with  him  a  short 
way.  And  this  is  what  the  dog  said  to  the 
butler : 

"  O  beautiful  butler,  I  am  a-weary,  a- weary ! 
Why  should  I  bark  whenever  I  hear  the  front- 
door beh1  ring,  and  have  it  imputed  unto  me  for 
intelligence?  For  I  know  in  my  heart  that  the 
visitors  at  this  house  are  respectable  visitors. 
I  know  that  they  will  not  steal  the  spoons,  or 
murder  my  master  and  mistress,  or  growl  at 
you,  O  beautiful  butler.  Why  then  should  I 
bark  at  them  and  frighten  them?  It  is  such  a 
paltry  farce.  Why  should  I  pretend  to  be  de- 
voted to  my  master  and  mistress?  I  like  them 
well  enough ;  but  they  are  quite  ordinary  peo- 
ple, and  I  am  most  emphatically  not  devoted  to 


THE  DOG  THAT  GOT  FOUND      127 

them.  Yet  I  let  them  believe  it.  My  master 
thinks  that  when  he  dies  I  shall  fetch  a  Sir-Ed- 
win-Landseerish  artist,  to  show  my  instinct, 
and  then  die  oleographically  on  his  tombstone  to 
show  my  fidelity.  Bah!  Why  should  I  lie 
down  when  I  am  told,  and  get  up  when  I  am 
told,  and  always  be  sent  off  to  bed  at  the  same 
time?  Why  should  I  pretend  to  be  surprised 
and  piggishly  pleased,  whenever  I  have  any 
food  given  me?  I  tell  you  that  I'm  the  slave 
of  conventionality,  and  I  hate  it.  Let  us  be 
natural !  For  the  love  of  bones  let  us  be  natural ! 
Liberty,  0  beautiful  butler,  and  Fraternity,  and 
Equality!" 

The  dog  stopped,  gasping.  To  the  butler  it 
was  only  a  noise  that  the  dog  was  making,  an 
unintelligible  noise.  For  the  butler  could  not 
understand  doggish;  moreover,  on  that  morn- 
ing he  had  been  rendered  unhappy  by  circum- 
stances, and  he  was  in  no  mood  to  tolerate  the 
yelping  of  a  fox-terrier. 

"  Look  here,  master  Fido,"  he  said  severely. 

"Sickly,  sentimental  name  it  is,  too,"  inter- 
rupted the  dog. 

"Look  here,  master  Fido,"  the  butler  re- 
sumed, more  severely.  "If  you  can't  close 
your  head,  I  shall  just  take  you  back  again. 
That's  what  I  shall  do  with  you.  Here  am  I. 
I  gets  my  eyes  cursed  by  master  Frederick  for 
what's  not  my  fault  nor  anybody  else's  fault 


128  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

except  his  own.  I  expect  that — and  I  put  up 
with  it.  And  very  likely  I'm  a  worm,  a  trodden 
worm,  being  treated  as  such.  But  I  am  not 
going  to  be  yelped  at  by  no  fox-terriers.  Human 
nature  draws  the  line  somewhere." 

"A  stupid  man,  although  beautiful,"  the  dog 
thought  to  himself,  as  he  silently  took  his  place 
at  the  butler's  heels.  And  when  he  got  home 
he  went  straight  to  his  bed,  and  dreamed  of  a 
free  artistic  life,  full  of  love-stories. 

On  the  following  day  a  large  tom-cat  was 
brought  to  the  house.  It  had  come  from  a 
beautiful  home  for  lost  culture  in  South  Ken- 
sington. Fido  discovered  that  it  was  expected 
that  he  would  fight  with  the  cat ;  so  he  at  once 
made  friends  with  it  to  show  his  originality, 
and  he  explained  to  it  how  this  kind  of  life  hurt 
him,  and  how  hungry  his  soul  was.  Now  the 
cat  was  very  high-toned  and  as  full  of  other 
people's  phrases  as  it  could  stick. 

"  Ah,  yes ! "  it  murmured  with  a  tired  mew. 
"You  revolt.  It  is  so  very  fin  de  siecle  to  re- 
volt. And  you  would  live?  I  do  not  see  the 
necessity;  that  goes  without  saying,  since  I 
am  a  quietist.  It  is  almost  more  fin  de  siecle 
to  be  a  quietist,  you  know.  You  don't  know? 
Ah,  how  right  of  you!  Never  know.  Only 
imagine — dream.  There  are  rose-leaves  in  the 
world,  and  old  silver  and  beautiful  women,  and 
wind-songs  and  sea- songs.  Go  and  look  for 


THE  DOG  THAT  GOT  FOUND       129 

them.  Go  out  into  the  cool  night,  when  it 
is  dark,  and  you  can  see  nothing,  and  look 
for  them.  You're  drinking  my  milk,  you 

pig." 

The  last  remark,  which — as  compared  with 
the  rest — was  plain,  was  unfortunately  also 
true.  Fido  had  done  it  from  absence  of  mind, 
and  he  was  sore  ashamed.  But  he  liked  the 
way  the  cat  talked ;  it  did  seem  so  very  high. 
So  that  night  he  made  unto  himself  an  oppor- 
tunity, and  got  away  from  the  great  house. 
And  first  of  all  he  careered  into  Piccadilly. 
There  he  sat  down  in  the  middle  of  the  road, 
scratched  his  head  with  his  hind-foot,  and  said, 
"  0  my  adventurous  soul ! " 

At  that  moment  a  passing  cah  nearly  ran 
over  Fido,  and  the  driver  flicked  him  with  his 
whip.  It  was  painful. 

"This  is  life,"  said  Fido  to  himself,  "poig- 
nant and  intense,  it  is  true,  but  still  quite  free 
from  conventionality.  I  shall  come  to  the 
sweetness  and  brightness  of  it  presently.  But — 
lovely  Helen ! — how  that  whip  did  hurt ! " 

He  was  a  moderately  intelligent  dog,  and  he 
saw  that  these  crowded  thoroughfares  were  irk- 
some to  a  dog  that  wanted  to  be  soulful  and  not 
to  take  the  trouble  to  see  where  it  was  going. 
The  desert  —  the  sandy,  lonely,  wind-swept 
desert — would  do  him  far  better.  So  he  stopped 
a  large  St.  Bernard,  which  was  taking  its  mas- 
9 


130  STORIES  AND  INTERLUDES 

ter  out,  and  inquired  which  was  the  way  to  the 
nearest  desert. 

"Go  home,  you  flighty-headed  young  idiot," 
said  the  St.  Bernard  sternly. 

Fido  walked  on,  determined  to  take  no  notice 
of  this  insult ;  but  his  angry  soul  bubbled  and 
boiled  within  him,  and  called  for  vengeance 
until  he  could  stand  it  no  longer.  "I  must 
punish  that  dog,"  he  said  to  himself;  "I '11  go 
back  and  bark  at  his  tail,  and  then  run  away. 
He's  chained  to  a  man,  so  he  won't  be  able  to 
run  after  me." 

So  he  went  back  and  barked  most  nobly; 
unfortunately  he  barked  at  the  wrong  dog,  who 
was  not  chained,  and  when  he  ran  away  the 
wrong  dog  ran  after  him,  being  wishful  to  eat 
a  portion  of  him.  And  for  a  long  time  Fido 
ran  on,  going  westward,  and  then  southwest- 
ward,  skirting  passionate  Brompton,  and  paus- 
ing at  last  in  the  North  End  Koad.  But  his 
pursuer  had  run  into  a  lamp-post  that  stood  in 
the  parts  about  Knightsbridge,  and  so  had  gone 
no  further,  being  sorry  for  himself. 

In  the  North  End  Road  Saturday  night  is 
market-night,  and  there  is  such  cheapness  in 
that  road  as  can  only  be  found  in  one  other  part 
of  great  London.  It  was  Saturday  night  when 
Fido  got  there,  and  the  street  was  crowded. 
The  flare  of  the  lights  on  the  barrows,  the 
hoarse  cries  of  the  salesmen,  the  hurry  of  every- 


THE  DOG  THAT  GOT  FOUND       131 

body,  and  the  excessive  intoxication  of  the 
three  people  nearest  him,  flurried  Fido.  He 
found,  however,  something  which  was  very  like 
a  small  desert  under  a  barrow  where  peppermint 
rock  was  being  sold  at  a  price  which,  the  pro- 
prietor explained,  barely  paid  for  the  paper  in 
which  it  was  wrapped.  At  the  next  stall  was 
a  very  scientific-looking  old  gentleman  in  a 
dressing-gown,  a  gray  beard,  and  a  college  cap. 
Fido  sat  in  his  miniature  desert  and  listened 
to  the  old  gentleman,  who  was  addressing  the 
crowd : 

"  It  was  my  aim,  therefore,  bein'  a  philosopher 
as  well  as  a  scientist,  to  go  a  little  further  than 
this  Edising  what  discovered  electricity.  The 
question  which  I  arst  myself,  and  which  I  arsks 
you  to-night,  was  simply  this — why  should  I 
die?  Why  should  I  not  use  some  modification 
of  this  electricity,  combinin'  it  with  other 
things,  to  restore  my  wasted  vitality  and  pro- 
long my  life?  For  this  purpose  I  studied  for 
several  years  in  three  forrun  capitals,  and  the 
results  is  the  little  machine  you  see  before  you. 
You  grasps  the  two  'andles  in  your  two  'ands, 
and  say  when  the  shock's  as  strong  as  you  care 
to  'ave  it.  ' Appiness  and  'ealth  for  one  penny ! 
'  Appiness  and  'ealth  by  the  newly  invented  life- 
improver  for  one  penny  a  shock.  After  to-night 
the  price  will  be  one  guinea  a  shock,  so  now's 
your  chance," 


132  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

"This  is  better,"  Fido  thought  to  himself. 
"  We  never  had  any  brilliant  theories  and  new 
discoveries  in  that  horrible  abode  of  conven- 
tionality where  they  made  me  do  trust-and- 
paid-for." 

At  this  moment  the  dog  noticed  a  butcher's 
shop  on  the  other  side  of  the  pavement.  The 
butcher  himself  stood  at  one  side  of  it,  with  the 
agony  of  a  great  soul  written  on  his  fat  face, 
speaking  to  the  crowd  with  the  earnestness  and 
conviction  of  a  dying  man  to  dying  men : 

"  (Prestissimo)  Buy,  buy,  buy !  (Adagio  con 
molto  expressione)  Lyedy,  gentle  lyedy,  'ere's 
a  Sunday  dinner  for  yer.  Make  your  own 
price,  lyedy,  and  we  cuts  to  suit  yer.  (Batten- 
tando)  Gentle  lyedy,  to-morrer's  Sunday." 

"  This  is  Fraternity  and  Equality,"  thought 
Fido.  And  then  another  of  those  curious  fits  of 
absence  of  mind  came  over  him,  and  he  came 
out  from  under  the  barrow,  and  went  over  to  the 
butcher's  shop;  he  made  a  small  selection,  and 
walked  away  with  the  selection  in  his  mouth. 
But  the  butcher  saw  him,  and  his  voice  rose 
like  the  wail  of  a  lost  spirit:  "Blanks  and 
initialled  hyphens!  kick  that  dorg,  some  of 
yer!" 

And  then  it  seemed  to  Fido  that  earthquakes, 
explosions,  volcanoes,  and  empty  meat  tins  were 
all  happening  at  once,  and  that  in  the  middle  of 
them  he  himself  was  running  in  three  different 


THE  DOG  THAT  GOT  POUND      133 

directions  simultaneously.  When  he  collected 
his  thoughts  again  he  was  limping  along  in 
great  pain  on  the  darker  side  of  the  Fulham 
Road,  having  dropped  the  selection  into  the 
mud,  and  feeling  like  to  die.  He  paused  on 
Putney  Bridge  to  make  a  moral  reflection,  ad- 
dressed to  no  one  in  particular:  "When  you 
forsake  the  paths  of  conventionality  keep  your 
eye  upon  your  fleshy  appetites.  Never  forget 
that  you  were  not  made  wholly  spiritual. " 

He  crawled  with  infinite  difficulty  up  Putney 
Hill.  It  had  grown  very  late  now,  and  there 
was  no  one  about.  He  was  cut,  and  bruised, 
and  broken,  plastered  with  mud  and  blood. 
When  a  dog  means  to  do  a  pathetic  thing,  it 
likes  to  do  it  in  private.  So  Fido  crept  away 
to  the  right  on  to  Putney  Common,  and  there 
he  hid  himself  under  a  bush,  panting,  with  his 
tongue  out.  He  prayed  in  faltering  doggish 
that  it  might  occur  to  a  stream  of  clear,  cool 
water  to  come  past  him,  because  he  was  too  tired 
to  go  in  search  of  it.  In  the  early  hours  he 
heard  a  kind  of  singing  in  his  ears ;  and  at  first 
his  wandering  mind  thought  that  this  must  be 
his  mistress  practising  her  scales  in  the  room 
overhead;  and  then  he  remembered  that  there 
was  no  room  overhead,  nothing  but  darkness, 
and  then  again  it  might  possibly  be  the  sound 
of  the  cool  stream  coming  toward  him.  He 
waited  a  little  longer,  but  the  stream  did  not 


134  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

come ;  there  was  only  one  thing  left  to  do,  and 
he  did  it — in  a  simple  and  unaffected  manner. 

The  laboring  man  noticed  the  body,  as  he 
took  his  short  cut  across  the  common.  "  Bill," 
he  said  to  his  mate,  "  'ere's  a  dead  dorg,  with 
a  silver  collar  to  'im;  'e  must  'ave  got  lorst." 

As  a  matter  of  fact  he  had  just  got  found, 
and  his  soul  was  chasing  ghost-rats  in  the  happy 
hunting-grounds.  "  Fair  doos  with  the  collar," 
remarked  Bill. 


THE  BAT  AND  THE  DEVIL 

I 

THE  bat  he  hung  on  the  yew-tree  bough, 
As  the  devil  came  over  the  high  hill  brow. 
He  opened  the  gate  of  the  grim  churchyard, 
And  cursed  at  the  hinges  that  went  so  hard. 
He  sat  him  down  'neath  the  same  yew-tree 
And  long  at  the  poor  little  bat  glared  he: 
"  It  is  but  a  leaf  that  is  hanging  there, 
Dead,  but  moved  by  the  strong  sweet  air. 
Plants  and  trees  are  nothing  to  me, 
And  nothing  to  Him  who  made  them  be. 
They  have  one  life  and  no  more  than  that " — 

Poor  old  Bat! 

II 

The  bat  dropped  down  from  the  yew-tree  spray, 
And  crawled  on  the  devil  in  a  grewsome  way. 
A  woman's  skin  would  have  leaped  with  fear 
At  the  cold  claws  touching  there  and  here ; 
But  the  devil  did  naught  but  chuckle  and  sing : 
"  It's  a  creeping  thing !     It's  a  creeping  thing ! 
By  the  Serpent  of  Eden,  first  of  the  line, 
All  that  creeps  on  the  earth  is  mine. 


136  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

This  is  no  leaf,  but  a  soul  to  crawl 
In  my  inner  chamber  along  the  wall, 
With  the  poison-snake  and  the  snail  of  slime 
In  hell's  dark  place  that  knows  not  time, 
For  my  sisters  to  mock  and  be  merry  at ' ' — 

Poor  old  Bat ! 

Ill 

But  the  grim  churchyard  grew  dusk  and  dark, 
And  stars  'gan  twinkling,  spark  by  spark ; 
And  out  and  away  on  the  air  of  night 
Sailed  the  bat  with  a  noiseless  flight, 
With  scarce  a  whirr  of  its  nervous  wing, 
As  it  wheeled  around  in  a  widening  ring ; 
But  a  curse  came  into  the  devil's  eyes, 
And  his  mouth  was  red  with  blasphemies : 
"  By  the  angels  that  float  in  the  heavenly  air, 
By  the  holy  sheen  of  the  wings  they  wear — 
And  damned  be  they  f orevermore ! 
All  that  flies  in  the  air  will  soar 
Upward  to  Him,  and  away  from  me ! " 

And  the  lightning  blasted  the  grim  yew-tree, 
And  the  thunder  roared,  and  the  rain  made  foam 
On  the  path,  as  the  devil  got  him  home — 
Home  by  the  broad  road  and  the  level — 

Poor  old  Devil ! 


IX 

TWO  POETS 

"Now,  look  here,  Hubert,  do  just  let  me 
read  you  the  finest  part." 

There  was  something  splendid  in  the  vanity 
of  this  large,  venerable  man.  He  was  only 
middle-aged,  but  he  looked  venerable.  He  sat 
well  back  in  his  easy-chair,  full  of  complacency 
and  dinner.  His  fat,  white,  ringed  fingers 
toyed  delicately  with  his  liqueur-glass.  His 
eyes,  as  he  spoke,  glanced  lovingly  toward  an 
awful  portfolio — a  portfolio  as  bulgy  as  its 
owner — which  rested  on  a  writing-table  in  a 
far  corner.  He  was  so  childish  and  eager  that 
Hubert  felt  that  it  was  impossible  to  be  angry 
with  this  fatuous  poet,  although  it  would  be 
still  more  impossible  to  listen  to  his  verses. 
Hubert  was  five  years  younger  than  the  vener- 
able Archibald,  and  looked  ten  years  younger. 
He  had  the  broad,  low  brow  and  the  luminous 
eyes  that  see  the  humor  of  things.  They  had 
been  friends  at  college,  and  college  friendships 
stick. 

They  only  resembled  one  another  in  the  fact 


138  STORIES  AND  INTERLUDES 

that  they  both  wrote  verses.  Archibald  was  a 
fairly  rich  man,  and  was  about  to  publish  his 
own  works  at  his  own  expense  in  dainty  vellum 
binding.  Hubert,  although  not  poor,  was 
much  poorer,  and  quite  unpublished.  Archi- 
bald had  never  suffered  a  strong  passion,  had 
no  strange  experiences,  and  no  close  ties  of  af- 
fection; for  he  had  many  acquaintances  and 
no  near  relations.  In  Archibald's  affections, 
Hubert  had  told  him  more  than  once,  Archi- 
bald himself  and  his  own  verses  came  first, 
sweet  champagne  and  oily  liquors  second, 
chocolate  bon-bons  third,  and  the  rest  nowhere. 
At  which  Archibald  would  smile  a  fat  smile, 
and  say  that  he  was  quite  prepared  to  own  his 
devotion  to  his  art.  He  was  so  perfectly  well 
satisfied  with  himself  that  the  laughter  or  jeers 
of  his  friend  never  affected  him,  and  would  not 
have  affected  him  even  if  they  had  not  been — 
as  they  were — always  uttered  good-humoredly. 
Hubert  had  been  less  fortunate  than  Archibald. 
He  was  more  sensitive  and  less  sensible.  He 
was  susceptible,  and  had  been  the  fool  of  more 
than  one  woman.  At  this  time  he  was  mar- 
ried, but  separated  from  his  wife.  He  was  re- 
served on  such  points,  and  Archibald  never 
knew  that  his  friend  was,  or  ever  had  been, 
married.  Hubert  was  always  suffering  the  re- 
morse that  he  was  always  causing  himself ;  and 
yet  his  frailties  were  lovable,  and  he  had  never 


TWO   POETS  139 

lost  his  sweet  temper  and  his  geniality.  His 
experiences  and  sorrows  had  gone  straight 
through  his  heart  out  into  his  verse.  In  verse 
he  had  found  much  consolation,  but  no  money. 
It  was  not  poverty  that  caused  either  of  the 
two  to  write.  Vanity  compelled  Archibald; 
the  desire  for  comfort  moved  Hubert. 

Yet  with  all  their  differences  they  remained 
very  good  friends.  They  often  dined  together, 
as  they  had  been  dining  now,  in  Archibald's 
chambers.  On  rare  occasions  Hubert  would 
allow  Archibald  to  have  recourse  to  the  awful 
portfolio;  then  Archibald  was  happy.  Hubert 
never  read  his  own  poetry  aloud,  and  his  friend 
only  knew  that  he  had  written  some  verses  for 
which  he  had  not  been  able  to  find  a  pub- 
lisher. 

"Now,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Archibald,  re- 
peating his  request,  "I  value  your  opinion. 
The  part  I  want  to  read  you  is  the  first  twenty 
lines  of  *  The  Darkness  of  Eros.'  After  that, 
if  you  don't  want  to  hear  any  more,  I  promise 
to  stop.  I  read  those  twenty  lines  to  Smith - 
son,  and  he  asked  me  to  go  on ;  and  you  know 
Smithson's  not  the  man  to  be  easily  pleased." 
Archibald  rose  and  waddled  toward  the  port- 
folio like  a  frightened  hen  getting  home. 

"All  nonsense,  old  man,"  said  Hubert; 
"you'd  had  Smithson  to  dinner." 

"But  that's  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  replied 


140  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

Archibald,  fumbling  with  a  bundle  of  proofs 
which  he  had  selected  from  the  portfolio. 

"Well,  you  know,  Smithson's  mostly  used 
to  dining  at  restaurants,  and  he  can't  quite  un- 
derstand a  free  feed.  I  can.  I  like  it.  But 
Smithson  always  has  an  idea  that  he's  got  to 
pay  for  his  dinner  somehow.  When  he  dines 
with  one,  he  alwaj's  admires  the  pictures  and 
furniture.  Of  course,  he  can't  admire  your 
Landseers;  because,  although  Smithson's  vul- 
gar, he's  not  so  hopeless  as  all  that.  But  he 
praises  your  poetry  instead." 

Archibald  smoothed  out  one  long  slip  on  his 
plump  knee.  "  Now  it's  just  precisely  because 
by  a  remark  like  that  you  show  a  certain 
amount"  of  insight  that  Smithson  doesn't  pos- 
sess that  I  want  you  to — er — now  then." 

And  before  Hubert  could  stop  him  he  had 
read  the  first  line : 

"'Shall  we  sing  of  the  sea-foam  that  bore  thee,  the 
Mother  of  Love?'" 

"  Next  line  ends  in  'dove/  "  remarked  Hubert 
waywardly. 

"It  does  not,"  said  Archibald  emphatically. 
"It  ends  in  'above.'  And  you  might  have 
had  'grove'  or  'shove,'  or  heaps  of  things. 
You  spoil  it,  you  know,  by  talking  like  that." 

"No,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Hubert;  "it's 
Smithson  who  really  spoils  you.  Look  here. 


TWO   POETS  141 

When  you  read  your  verses  I  want  to  laugh, 
and  that's  not  right.  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do. 
I'll  do  something  I  never  did  for  you  before. 
I'll  take  that  proof  home  and  read  it,  and  give 
you  my  detailed  opinion  of  it." 

"You  will?"  said  Archibald,  and  his  eyes 
brightened  as  he  handed  him  the  proof.  "  I'm 
not  sure  that  it  would  not  be  better  for  me  to 
read  it ;  but,  on  my  word,  it's  something  that  you 
want  to  read  it  yourself  when  you've  only  heard 
one  line."  For  it  was  Archibald's  conviction 
that  Hubert  must  have  been  attracted  by  that 
line  to  make  the  proposal.  "And  you'll  give 
me  your  opinion  of  it,"  he  continued,  "your 
candid  opinion — just  what  you  think,  you 
know?" 

"I  will,"  said  Hubert;  "but  you  will  publish 
it  just  the  same,  whatever  my  opinion  is." 

"I  own  that,"  replied  Archibald  blandly: 
"because  I  have  a  confidence  in  that  work 
which  I  am  persuaded  is  just. " 

"And  talking  of  candid  opinions,"  Hubert 
went  on,  with  the  plain  speaking  of  a  very  old 
friend,  "this  particular  mixture  of  citron  and 
treacle  is  rather  more  nasty  than  I  care  for. 
I  know  it's  your  taste,  but " 

Archibald  smiled  and  touched  the  bell. 
Then  they  fell  to  talking  of  the  wickedness  of 
wine  merchants  and  publishers  and  of  the 
beauty  of  old  college-days,  until  the  small 


142  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

hours.  Hubert  was  thinking  as  his  cab  took 
him  back  to  his  own  chambers.  He  was  think- 
ing of  a  certain  ship  of  his  which  had  recently 
come  in  and  which  he  had  long  before  given 
up.  It  would  enable  him,  if  he  liked,  to  do 
precisely  what  Archibald  was  doing — to  publish 
his  own  verses  at  his  own  expense. 

On  the  table  in  his  chambers  he  found  a  let- 
ter waiting  for  him,  addressed  to  him  in  a  fa- 
miliar feminine  hand.  It  was  written  on  thick, 
rough-edged  paper,  and  bore  a  great  gilt  mon- 
ogram. She  was  always  adopting  fashions,  he 
knew,  but  they  took  time  in  reaching  her. 
There  were  three  sheets,  all  crossed;  and  one 
of  them  was  smeared  with  cigarette  ashes. 
He  glanced  through  them  impatiently  and 
flung  them  on  the  fire.  Then  he  took  out  his 
check-book,  wrote  a  check,  and  put  it  in  an  en- 
velope, which  he  stamped  and  addressed. 

Then  he  went  to  bed  with  the  pleasant  con- 
sciousness that  the  ship  which  had  come  in  had 
now  gone  out  again ;  and  that  the  poems  would 
have  to  wait. 

Yet  they  ultimately  found  a  publisher. 

Archibald  Somers  and  Hubert  Ray  both  died 
in  the  same  year.  Sixty  years  afterward  a 
critical  work  appeared  on  Archibald  Somers. 
As  this  critical  work  expressed  what  were  cer- 
tainly the  general  sentiments  of  the  time,  some 


TWO   POETS  143 

of  it  may  be  quoted.     Besides,  it  is  a  little  curi- 
ous: 

"It  is  to  be  regretted  that  Hubert  Ray  had  not  the 
humility  to  undertake  the  work  of  Boswell  for  John- 
son ;  although  he  was  undoubtedly  less  than  Boswell, 
even  as  Somers  was  undoubtedly  greater  than  Johnson. 
Had  he  done  so,  we  might  have  had  a  clearer  picture 
of  the  personality  of  the  finest  English  poet  since  Mil- 
ton. As  it  is,  Archibald  Somers  is  an  indistinct  fig- 
ure ;  a  figure  which  we  love  and  reverence,  but  of 
which  we  would  fain  know  more.  Hubert  Ray  was 
too  much  taken  up  with  his  own  filthy  intrigues,  his 
own  morbid  rhymes  and  spiteful  lampoons  ;  he  was  too 
much  blinded  by  conceit  to  see  the  greatness  of  his 
intimate  friend.  It  is  a  satire  on  their  times  that  Hu- 
bert Ray  should  have  found  a  publisher  foolish  enough 
to  produce  his  works  for  nothing,  while  Archibald 
Somers  positively  had  to  pay  to  give  the  world  a  work 
which  it  now  knows  to  be  priceless.  It  is  true  that 
subsequently,  even  in  their  life-time,  the  pre-emi- 
nence of  Somers  was  acknowledged ;  but  if  we  may 
judge  the  man  from  the  delicacy  of  his  writing,  his 
modesty  would  be  astounded  if  he  knew — alas,  he  can 
never  know  ! — the  position  which  he  justly  holds  now 
among  the  poets  of  this  land. " 


AINIGMATA 

I  WANTED  the  sweep  of  the  wild  wet  weather, 

The  wind's  long  lash  and  the  rain's  free  fall, 
The  toss  of  the  trees  as  they  swayed  together, 

The  measureless  gray  that  was  over  them  all ; 
Whose  roar  speaks  more  than  a  language  spoken ; 

Wordless  and  wonderful,  cry  on  cry — 
The  sob  of  an  earth  that  is  vexed  and  broken, 

The  answering  sob  of  a  broken  sky. 

What  could  they  tell  us?    We  see  them  ever — 

The  trees,  and  the  sky,  and  the  stretch  of  the 

land; 
But  they  give  us  a  word  of  their  secret  never ; 

They  tell  no  story  we  understand. 
Yet  haply  the  ghost-like  birch  out  yonder 

Knows  much  in  a  placid  and  silent  way ; 
The  rain  might  tell  what  the  gray  clouds  ponder, 

The  winds  repeat  what  the  violets  say. 

Why  weeps  the  rain?     Do  you  know  its  sorrow? 
Do  you  know  why  the  wind  is  so   sad — so 
sad? 


AINIGMATA  145 

Have  you  stood  in  the  rift  'twixt  a  day  and  a 

morrow, 
Seen  their  hands  meet  and  their  eyes  grow 

glad? 

Is  the  tree's  pride  stung  at  its  top's  abasement? 

Is  the  white  rose  more  of  a  saint  than  the  red? 

What  thinks  the  star  as  it  sees   through  the 

casement 

A  young  girl  lying,  beautiful,  dead? 
10 


WHITE  NIGHTS 

1— THE  STORY  OF  UNA  AND  ALTERA 

LILIAS,  the  princess  whom  all  loved,  was  ill 
and  not  able  to  sleep.  We  did  not  know  just 
at  first  what  was  the  matter  with  her,  and  in- 
deed the  court  physicians  owned  that  they  did 
not  understand  her  illness.  The  king,  her 
father,  was  away  at  a  conference  in  a  distant 
island,  and  her  two  sisters,  the  Princesses 
Rosalys  and  Yseult,  grew  very  anxious.  Lilias 
had  always  been  slight  and  delicate ;  and  now 
every  day  she  seemed  to  grow  more  pale  and 
fragile  and  worn.  A  very  little  thing  would 
be  a  burden  to  her  and  make  her  tired.  Yet 
she  kept  her  beauty;  it  seemed  even  to  be  in- 
creased, and  there  was  a  more  pathetic  mean- 
ing in  her  gray  eyes.  Her  loveliness  lay  in  her 
rare  and  wonderful  spirituality.  It  was  not 
the  common  beauty  of  a  woman;  it  was  the 
beauty  that  one  would  imagine  in  a  saint — the 
reflection  in  her  look  of  the  beautiful  soul  with- 
in her. 

To  all  around  her  she  was  as  kind  and  gentle 


WHITE   NIGHTS  147 

as  ever,  but  one  could  see  that  she  had  lost  her 
interest  in  things.  She  would  sit,  looking  out 
on  the  sunset  or  listening  to  the  far-off  sound 
of  the  sea,  saying  nothing.  We  knew  that 
she  had  some  sorrow,  and  we  would  have  done 
much — anything — to  have  helped  her;  for  she 
had  many  lovers,  and  she  always  seemed  to  win, 
even  from  quite  ordinary  men,  the  best  love — 
the  love  that  desires  only  to  give  and  not  to 
receive.  But  there  was  none  who  would  have 
dared  to  ask  for  her  confidence.  It  was  very 
rarely  that  she  spoke  of  herself.  Most  women 
will  chatter  about  their  hearts  to  other  women, 
but  the  Princess  Lilias  was  not  like  that.  Her 
share  of  the  more  intimate  sorrows  and  joys 
of  humanity  was  so  sacred  that  even  sympathy 
was  in  peril  of  becoming  profanation. 

All  this  should  have  been  nothing  to  me,  the 
king's  fool,  the  son  of  a  scullion  in  the  royal 
household,  but  it  happened  one  night  that  Lilias 
said  she  would  like  some  one  to  come  and  tell 
her  stories  from  time  to  time,  especially  on 
those  nights  when  she  could  not  sleep.  It  was 
then  that  the  chief  minister  told  me  to  hold  my- 
self in  readiness;  he  explained  to  me  that  he 
had  no  reason  to  believe  I  could  make  up  stories 
myself,  but  he  knew  that  I  was  well  acquainted 
with  the  jests  of  all  lands,  and  that  I  might, 
by  drawing  from  the  stores  of  my  memory,  be 
able  to  be  amusing.  I  was  not  to  tell  sad  sto- 


148  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

ries.  My  audience  was  to  consist  of  the  three 
princesses,  as  a  rule. 

I  mistrusted  my  own  powers.  The  Princess 
Rosalys  was  quiet,  kind,  womanly,  and  I  knew 
that  she  would  not  judge  my  attempts  too 
hardly.  Yseult  was  petulant,  wayward,  provo- 
cante,  and  sometimes  bitter  of  spirit,  although 
she  was  not  able  to  hurt  me.  And  it  seemed 
impossible  to  make  anything  good  enough  for 
Lilias  to  hear;  and  yet  I  wanted  to  try.  I  was 
not  going  to  obey  the  minister's  orders  and 
make  my  stories  consist  entirely  of  remembered 
jests ;  for  it  did  not  seem  to  me  to  be  the  best 
kind  of  sympathy  to  laugh  with  those  that  weep. 
Yes,  I  was  glad  that  I  was  going  to  be  with 
Lilias;  I  liked  to  look  at  her;  indeed,  I  liked 
all  beautiful  and  sorrowful  things,  being  des- 
tined to  ugliness  and  merriment  all  my  days. 

Those  days  will  soon — very  soon — be  at  an 
end  now.  For  I  who  write  these  words  am  un- 
der sentence  of  death,  and  together  with  this 
account  of  the  white  nights  of  the  Princess  Lil- 
ias, I  shall  be  writing  the  last  chapter  of  my 
own  story,  showing  how  it  was  that  I  was  con- 
demned to  die.  Now,  when  I  was  first  sum- 
moned, it  was  to  the  great  hall,  and  the  prin- 
cesses were  seated  near  the  fire,  for  it  was  early 
in  the  summer  and  the  nights  were  still  chilly. 
Lilias  was  half  reclining,  looking  tired  and 
white,  but  with  her  gray  eyes  wide  open.  Ho- 


WHITE   NIGHTS  149 

salys  was  seated  on  the  ground  at  her  feet,  her 
head  resting  on  her  sister's  knees.  But  Yseult 
sat  a  little  way  apart,  with  laughing  eyes,  her 
fingers  trembling  on  the  strings  of  the  harp 
which  she  had  been  playing. 

"We  await  your  story,  fool,"  said  the  dark- 
haired  Yseult. 

"  Will  you  tell  us  a  story,  Otho?  "  asked  Ro- 
salys  more  gently. 

"A  story  of  children,"  added  Lilias;  her 
voice  was  more  musical  and  softer. 

"  Yes, "  I  said,  "  but  you  must  play  for  me  a 
little  while,  Yseult,  while  I  think."  It  was  the 
privilege  of  the  king's  fool  to  be  allowed  abso- 
lution from  all  etiquette.  It  was  generally  felt 
that  he  did  not  matter,  and  I  said  what  I  would. 
"  Will  you  play  for  me?  " 

She  showed  her  little  white  teeth.  "Why 
should  I  play  for  you,  fool?  Yes,  I  will,"  she 
added  petulantly.  "  What  shall  it  be?  " 

"  Searching  music — music  that  goes  away  to 
look — baffled  music." 

"But  you  are  reasonable,  fool.  You  ask  a 
light  thing — an  easy  thing." 

And,  being  wayward,  she  would  not  play  as 
I  had  asked  her.  She  made  music  that  laughed 
and  laughed;  and  suddenly  it  found  out  that 
all  was  too  sad  to  laugh  about,  and  went  sob- 
bing away  and  hid  itself.  She  looked  at  me 
proudly  when  she  had  finished,  knowing  that 


150  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

she  had  played  well  and  thinking  that  I  would 
praise  her.  But  I  stood  leaning  against  the 
high  mantelpiece,  with  my  eyes  on  the  gray 
eyes  of  Lilias. 

The  silence  was  pleasant;  pleasant  too  was 
the  dim  light  and  the  fragrance  of  the  logs 
that  smouldered  on  the  open  hearth.  For  a 
moment  I  said  nothing,  and  then — standing 
there — I  began  the  story  of  Una  and  Altera. 

Some  people  thought  that  Mark,  the  king  of 
Mirage,  was  eccentric;  others  considered  him 
to  be  wise ;  but  to  most  he  seemed  brutal.  He 
had  a  queer  temper,  soured,  but  with  a  streak 
of  tenderness  in  it. 

He  would  frequently  make  theories  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment,  which  were  not  good ;  he 
also  clung  to  them,  as  a  rule,  and  acted  upon 
them,  which  was  still  worse. 

One  day,  when  he  was  a  young  man  and 
had  not  been  long  on  the  throne,  he  was  talking 
to  his  chief  counsellor.  And  the  chief  coun- 
sellor happened  to  say  something  on  the  subject 
of  education.  It  was  enough;  it  started  Mark. 

"  No  looking-glasses ! "  Mark  said  suddenly, 
"and-  no  portraits!  They  are  the  ruin  of  all 
education,  and  'Know  thyself  is  the  worst  ad- 
vice that  ever  was  given.  Why  am  I  self-con- 
scious? Looking-glasses  and  portraits  are  the 
reason.  Why  are  you — you  will  excuse  me — 


WHITE  NIGHTS  151 

so  outrageously  affected?  Once  more — look- 
ing-glasses and  portraits. "  For  Mark  was  not 
good-looking,  but  the  chief  counsellor  had  a 
very  fine  open  countenance. 

The  chief  counsellor  moved  his  shoulders 
just  a  very  little  and  made  his  eyebrows  ex- 
pressive. 

"One  must  brush  one's  hair  sometimes,"  .he 
said  deprecatingly,  "and  without  a  looking- 
glass " 

"I  don't  see  the  necessity,"  interrupted  the 
king.  "  Besides,  with  a  little  practice  you  can 
do  even  that  without  a  looking-glass.  I  always 
brush  my  hair  without  a  looking-glass."  This 
had  been  moderately  obvious,  but  the  chief 
counsellor  did  not  like  to  allude  to  it.  "  When 
I  am  married  and  have  a  son,"  the  king  went 
on,  "I  will  not  allow  him  even  to  know  of  the 
existence  of  such  things  as  looking-glasses  or 
portraits.  He  shall  never  see  his  own  face  un- 
til his  character  is  formed." 

"Were  you  thinking  of  getting  married?  " 
asked  the  chief  counsellor,  by  way  of  chang- 
ing the  subject. 

"I  was." 

"  Might  I—"  the  chief  counsellor  hesitated — 
"might  I  ask  if  you  have  already  honored 
any  woman  with  your  love?  " 

"  You  might,  but  it  has  nothing  to  do  with 
it.  Immortals!  You  don't  think  I  would 


152  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

marry  any  woman  that  I  really  loved.  Would 
you  drink  Lafite  out  of  a  stable-bucket?  " 

"  No,  but  I  should  like  to  own  enough  of  it  to 
last  me  my  life- time." 

"And  marriage  does  not  last  a  life-time," 
the  king  broke  in  impetuously.  "  Love  does, 
if  you  don't  marry.  Marriage,  sooner  or  later, 
at  the  best  changes  love  into  that  nauseous 
wholesome  affection  you  have  for  your  dog  or 
your  father.  Oh,  you're  an  ordinary  person! 
You  simply  darent  be  new." 

The  chief  counsellor  might  have  retorted 
that  the  king  "simply  daren't"  be  anything 
else.  But  he  did  not.  He  sighed  and  with- 
drew. 

Shortly  afterward  the  king  acted  on  one  of 
his  theories.  He  married  a  woman  he  did  not 
love  in  the  least.  He  told  her  so.  "  I  like  you 
because  you're  fairly  pretty  and  good-tempered," 
he  said.  "  I  don't  love  you,  and  I  never  shall, 
because  our  souls  don't  touch  at  any  point. 
You  couldn't  possibly  love  me,  because  I  hap- 
pen to  be  horrible  in  most  ways.  But  business 
is  business.  You  probably  would  like  to  be  a 
queen,  and  I  have  the  vacancy  to  offer.  To- 
day week  would  suit  me  very  well.  If  you've 
any  engagement  for  that  day  don't  mind  say- 
ing so,  and  I'll  find  somebody  else." 

Curiously  enough,  this  particular  woman  did 
love  Mark — loved  him  very  badly.  It  is  still 


WHITE   NIGHTS  153 

more  curious,  seeing  that  she  loved  him,  that 
she  should  have  married  him  after  such  a  pro- 
posal as  this.  "  But, "  she  thought,  "  I  will  never 
let  him  see  that  I  love  him  until  I  have  made 
him  love  me."  She  never  did  let  him  find 
out  her  love  for  him,  and,  as  a  natural  conse- 
quence, he  never  loved  her ;  a  little  less  nobility 
would  have  made  her  happier.  After  a  year 
she  bore  him  a  daughter  and  died,  and  King 
Mark  walked  up  and  down  the  long  gallery  out- 
side the  room  where  she  was  lying  dead,  curs- 
ing his  dead  wife  and  all  women,  for  he  had 
greatly  desired  to  have  a  son. 

He  bade  the  women  of  the  palace  to  take 
charge  of  the  child  and  call  her  Una.  He  gave 
minute  instructions  about  her  education;  she 
was  never  to  see  the  reflection  of  herself  in  a 
mirror,  or  polished  metal,  or  water ;  there  were 
to  be  no  pictures  whatever  in  the  rooms  where 
she  lived.  She  was  not  to  know  that  there 
were  any  such  things.  His  orders  were  carried 
out  with  exactitude.  People  mostly  had  a 
habit  of  obeying  King  Mark.  For  seven  years 
the  king  never  saw  his  daughter:  he  went 
away  to  the  wars,  and  absolutely  refused  to  sit 
in  a  tent  of  cloth-of-gold  three  miles  away  from 
the  scene  of  action,  drinking  sack  and  being 
styled  Most  Puissant.  That  kind  of  thing  did 
not  amuse  him ;  he  wanted  fighting.  He  was 
not  a  good  swordsman,  but  he  came  out  safely 


154  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

from  all  his  battles.  "  You  have  brought  back 
your  life  and  your  honor,"  said  the  chief  coun- 
sellor. "And  I  do  not  want  either,"  answered 
King  Mark.  "I  only  want  one  thing,  and  I 
shall  never  have  it." 

One  day  he  suddenly  entered  that  wing  of 
the  house  where  his  daughter  Una  lived.  He 
was  shown  the  room  where  she  was ;  he  opened 
the  door  and  entered.  She  had  no  dolls,  be- 
cause they  were  considered  to  be  contrary  to  the 
spirit  of  the  king's  regulations.  She  was  read- 
ing in  a  big  illuminated  missal,  for  she  had  no 
companions  and  no  games,  and  had  been  all 
her  time  learning  things.  The  illuminations 
had  been  very  carefully  selected.  There  was 
no  butterfly,  nor  bird,  nor  flower  depicted  there- 
in. The  king  sat  down  with  his  elbows  on 
his  knees  and  his  chin  in  his  hands,  looking 
at  her.  She  was  very  beautiful;  there  was 
sunlight  in  her  hair ;  there  was  sunlight  in  her 
eyes ;  her  smile  was  sunlight.  As  soon  as  she 
saw  the  king  she  put  the  missal  aside,  and 
without  the  least  shyness  or  embarrassment 
came  toward  him.  She  took  both  his  hands  in 
her  own  and  kissed  him.  "  You  are  my  dear- 
est Mark,"  she  said,  "and  I  have  never  seen 
you  before.  They  have  told  me  of  you.  You 
have  been  away  fighting.  That  is  grand.  The 
more  you  fight  the  more  I  will  love  you." 

King  Mark  was  enraptured.     He  was  espe- 


WHITE   NIGHTS  155 

cially  pleased  that  Una  called  him  by  his  name 
and  not  by  the  commonplace  style  of  the  com- 
monplace relationship.  He  stayed  a  long  time 
with  her,  and  found  her  most  bright  and  affec- 
tionate and  free  from  self-consciousness.  He 
told  her  stories  and  she  told  him  stories  in  re- 
turn, using  free  dramatic  gestures.  "Now  I 
must  go,  Una, "  he  said  at  last.  "  Is  there  any- 
thing I  can  do  for  you — anything  you  want?  " 

"You,  you  and  your  stories,"  she  answered. 
"You  tell  them  as  if  you  hated  people  and 
wanted  to  fight  them,  and  it's  grand." 

So  the  king  went  away  madly  exalted.  In 
the  corridor  he  met  the  grave  chief  counsellor. 

"  Counsellor, "  he  cried  joyously,  "  is  there 
anything  in  the  world  that  you  want?  " 

"The  Order  of  the  Innermost  has  not  yet 
been  conferred  upon  me."  This  had  always 
been  a  sore  point  with  the  chief  counsellor. 

"You  shall  have  it,"  shouted  the  king,  and 
passed  on.  He  next  met  Una's  governess. 
"  Una's  governess,  tell  me — is  there  anything 
in  the  world  that  you  want?  "  he  asked. 

"Nothing,  O  king — nothing  for  myself. 
But,  oh,  that  poor  Una !  That  poor  child !  "  and 
she  burst  into  tears. 

"  Come  with  me  and  explain  yourself, "  said 
the  king.  And  he  took  her  to  the  room  where 
he  never  did  any  work,  and  which  was  conse- 
quently called  his  study.  There  the  governess 


156  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

explained.  Una  was  so  beautiful  and  had  no 
chance  of  knowing  her  own  beauty — the  great- 
est joy  that  child  or  woman  can  have.  "  And 
I  mayn't  speak  to  her  of  it.  Can't  she  have 
just  one  looking-glass?  "  The  king  thought  for 
a  moment  and  replied :  "  She  shall  have  a  large 
looking-glass,  and  I  will  take  her  to  see  her 
reflection  in  it.  But  you  must  go  on  as  before 
and  never  speak  to  her  of  such  things." 
"Thank  you,"  said  the  governess.  "Women 
do  need  a  looking-glass."  She  herself  was  as 
ugly  as  an  unromantic  virtue. 

On  the  following  day  the  king  had  one  end 
of  a  little  room  entirely  covered  with  looking- 
glass.  Four  yards  in  front  of  the  looking-glass 
a  silk  cord  was  stretched  across  the  room.  He 
had  a  fresh  lock  put  on  the  door  with  a  little 
silver  key  to  it.  Then  he  bound  over  the  work- 
men to  secrecy  and  went  to  find  Una.  "  Una," 
he  said,  "  I  have  a  secret  to  tell  you.  It  is  not 
generally  known,  but  you  are  one  of  twins. 
Your  sister  is  rather  like  you,  and  I  always 
have  her  dressed  exactly  like  you.  Her  name 
is  Altera." 

"  I  have  always  wanted  a  sister — a  sweet  sis- 
ter. May  I  not  see  her?  " 

"Yes,  under  certain  conditions.  There  are 
state  reasons.  I  will  take  you  to  a  room  where 
she  is.  You  must  not  speak  to  her,  nor  she  to 
you — as  yet ;  you  may  make  signs,  and  if  she 


WHITE   NIGHTS  157 

loves  you  she  will  copy  them  exactly;  if  you 
smile  at  her  she  will  smile  at  you.  You  must 
not  go  beyond  the  silken  cord  which  is  stretched 
across  your  part  of  the  room,  and  she  will  not 
go  beyond  the  cord  which  is  stretched  across 
her  part.  And  you  must  not  say  a  word  about 
it  to  any  one. " 

The  child  excitedly  promised  obedience. 
The  king  had  arranged  the  light  in  the  looking- 
glass  room — it  was  generally  called  the  red 
room — so  that  it  should  be  soft  and  dim.  "  I 
shall  wait  outside,"  said  the  king.  "  You  must 
only  stay  for  a  few  seconds." 

So  Una  went  in,  and  the  king  waited  out- 
side with  mad  humor  shooting  out  of  his  eyes. 
Presently  Una  came  out  again. 

"Oh!"  she  cried  eagerly,  "how  I  love  her! 
How  I  love  her.  My  sweetest,  dearest  Altera ! 
She  is  far — far  more  beautiful  than  I  am.  And 
she  must  love  me,  too,  because  she  made  all  the 
signs — and  so  quickly.  When  may  I  speak  to 
her  and  kiss  her?  I  am  really  happy  now  that 
I  have  Altera.  Oh,  she  is  sweet! " 

Then  the  humor  all  went  out  of  the  king's 
eyes,  and  great  wonder  came  into  them.  "  Go 
away,  Una,  for  a  little  while,"  he  said.  "I 
want  to  think." 

He  went  out  and  stretched  himself  in  the 
long  grass  and  felt  half -frightened  at  the  thing 
that  he  had  done.  And  a  little  brown  snake 


158  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

came  through  the  grass  and  bit  him,  and  he 
died. 

There  was  great  lamentation  in  the  palace. 
The  chief  counsellor,  at  the  close  of  the  next 
day,  went  to  find  Una  in  her  own  room  and 
comfort  her.  She  had  been  crying  all  day  and 
her  face  was  tear-stained.  As  soon  as  he  en- 
tered, before  he  could  say  anything,  she  spoke : 

"  Have  you  told  Altera?  "  * 

"Who  is  Altera?"  asked  the  counsellor 
blankly. 

"No,  you  don't  understand.  I  thought  you 
would  not.  You  have  the  king's  keys  there. 
Give  me  the  little  silver  key  and  follow  me  to 
the  red  room."  The  child  already  spoke  im- 
periously, like  a  queen.  "Take  that  taper, 
please.  I  may  be  able  to  tell  you  about  Altera 
directly." 

At  the  door  of  the  red  room  Una  took  the 
taper  and  entered,  bidding  the  counsellor  wait 
outside.  He  left  the  door  ajar  and  listened. 
This  is  what  he  heard : 

"They  told  you  then,  sweetest  Altera,  and 
you  were  coming  to  comfort  me.  I  love  you 
for  that.  You  must  not  cry  any  more,  because 
you  are  so  beautiful,  and  it  spoils  you.  I  want 
to  kiss  you  and  have  you  in  my  arms.  Speak ! 
Speak !  It  can't  matter  now  that  he  is  dead. 
See,  I  undo  the  cord — and  you  do  so  too.  I 
put  down  my  taper — and  you  put  down  yours. 


WHITE   NIGHTS  159 

Speak  to  me !  Come,  I  can  wait  no  longer.  I 
must  go  to  you.  Ah!  you  come  to  me. 
Quickly!  Quickly!" 

Then  there  was  a  cry — a  crash  of  glass — a 
fall — a  low  moan — and  silence. 

"  When  talk  sends  you  to  sleep  silence  wakes 
you,"  said  Yseult,  with  a  little  yawn. 

"Thank  you,  Otho,"  said  Rosalys. 

"  What  made  you  think  of  that  story?  "  asked 
Lilias. 

"  You  did, "  I  answered,  and  withdrew  from 
their  presence. 

2 — THE  STORY  OF  THE  FERRYMAN 

A  FEW  days  after  I  had  told  my  first  story, 
there  began  to  be  some  little  talk  about  the  Prin- 
cess Lilias.  There  were  hints  and  murmurs, 
and  the  burden  of  them  was  that  all  would  be 
well  with  her  again  when  the  prince  came  back. 
I  knew  that  they  spoke  of  the  Prince  Hilaro. 
He  had  come  from  over  seas,  from  the  Isle  of 
Storm,  to  our  court  and  had  stayed  with  us  for 
a  while.  I  saw  him  often  then,  and  yet  it  is 
hard  to  describe  him.  He  was  young  and 
tall ;  body  and  soul  he  was  made  of  beauty,  and 
brightness,  and  strength.  All  his  days  he 
had  lived  the  life  of  a  knight  and  of  a  saint, 
and  all  the  great  deeds  that  he  had  done,  and 
all  his  long  endurances  and  hardships,  and  all 


100  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

high  and  spiritual  thoughts,  seemed  to  have 
given  something  to  the  beauty  of  his  face. 
He  was  made  perfect.  There  was  no  fear  in 
him,  and  no  vanity,  and  nothing  that  was  not 
noble.  He  had  no  idea  that  he  was  great,  and 
to  all  except  himself  he  was  kind.  When  he 
was  with  us,  there  were  some  who  thought 
that  he  loved  Lilias.  I,  the  king's  fool,  had 
thought  it.  But  he  had  gone  back  again  to  his 
home  in  the  Isle  of  Storm,  and  had  said  noth- 
ing. None  of  us  had  supposed  that  Lilias  loved 
him ;  she  seemed  above  all  love. 

Yet  now  we  heard  that  the  king  had  left  the 
conference  and  had  gone  on  to  the  court  in  the 
Isle  of  Storm.  Despatches  were  received,  and 
the  old  ministers  whispered  together.  Folks 
said  that  Prince  Hilaro  was  coming  again,  and 
that  all  would  be  well  when  the  prince  came 
back. 

One  night  I  was  bidden  to  come  to  the  sum- 
mer-house that  the  king  had  built  for  the  prin- 
cesses in  the  part  of  the  palace  gardens  which 
was  called  the  wilderness.  The  three  prin- 
cesses were  waiting  for  me  there.  Lilias  stood 
by  the  window ;  she  was  in  shadow ;  yet  once 
I  saw  her  eyes,  looking  prayers,  as  it  seemed, 
at  the  strewn  stars,  for  it  was  a  glorious,  fair 
night.  Perhaps  her  thoughts  were  for  a  time 
far  away  with  Prince  Hilaro.  Yseult,  with 
flashing  eyes  and  lips  pressed  close  together, 


WHITE   NIGHTS  161 

touched  very  softly  the  strings  of  her  harp. 
She  made  it  whisper  curses.  Then  came  a  scrap 
of  a  wild  song.  Rosalys,  who  was  seated  by 
her  side,  started  a  little  and  said : 

"That  is  horrible,  Yseult — do  not  sing  it. 
But — but — yes,  I  must  hear  the  rest  of  it.  Go 
on.  Sing ! " 

Yseult  turned  to  me,  instead  of  answering 
Rosalys.  "Listen,  fool,"  she  said,  "listen. 
This  is  called  the  'Song  of  Hate/  and  I  love  it. 
See,  the  symphony  begins — a  beautiful  witch' 
woman,  red-lipped,  starving-eyed,  passionate, 
looking  out  into  the  storm."  Suddenly  she 
began  to  sing.  The  music  was  the  wickedest 
music  I  ever  heard  in  my  life.  Here  are  the 
words : 

"  My  eyes  look  out  on  the  storm  and  night, 
And  my  heart  is  mad  with  fierce  delight ; 
By  my  spells  have  I  worked  their  fate  aright— 
I  have  worked  the  deaths  of  my  brothers  three. 

"  They  took  my  lover  from  my  side ; 
There  were  flashing  swords,  and  a  voice  that  cried ; 
At  the  hands  of  the  cowards  my  lover  died — 
Dead,  dead  ere  the  dawn  they'll  bel 

"One's  gone  to  sea  with  his  merchandise  ; 
One's  gone  to  war  where  the  red  flag  flies ; 
One  sits  reading,  to  make  him  wise — 
Such  men  are  my  brothers  three. 
11 


162  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

"  One  for  his  merchandise  wins  gold  ; 
One  in  the  battle  would  fain  be  bold ; 
One  learns  secrets  manifold — 
Dead,  dead  ere  the  dawn  they'll  be! 

"There's  storm  and  wreck  on  the  sea  to-night; 
There's  a  blade  that  circles  swift  and  bright ; 
There's  lightning  to  strike  with  a  falchion  white — 
These  things  wait  for  my  brothers  three. 

"  The  trader  will  die  in  storm  and  wrack ; 
And  the  soldier  will  fall  and  no  more  come  back  ; 
And  the  third  will  be  horrible,  burned  and  black — 
Dead,  dead  ere  the  dawn  they'll  be!  " 

Over  the  harp-strings,  breathless  and  swift, 
upward,  upward,  louder  and  louder  leaped  the 
storm-music;  and  suddenly  stopped,  as  though 
stabbed  by  a  quick  thrust,  trembled,  and  was 
still ;  and  out  of  the  awful  hush,  slowly,  like  a 
thing  that  has  been  crushed  and  hurt,  crept  the 
melody  once  more — whispering,  sobbing : 

"  Oh,  my  dead  lover,  come  !    I  fall ! 
I  die,  and  do  not  hear  thee  call ; 
I  see  thy  face  no  more  at  all — 
Come — in  this  darkness  come  to  me ! 

"  It  was  for  thee  I  wrought  the  spell 
That  even  now  is  working  well — 
For  their  three  lives  my  soul  in  hell — 
Dead,  dead  ere  the  dawn  I'll  be !" 

The  music  had  us  all  by  the  throat.  No  one 
spoke.  I  had  never  heard  Yseult  sing  so  effec- 


WHITE   NIGHTS  163 

lively,  so  dramatically  before.  ""At  the  last  note 
she  rose  quickly,  and  stood  for  a  second  sway- 
ing, with  fluttering  breath.  Rosalys  was 
watching  her  anxiously.  Then  like  a  blind 
woman,  as  if  she  were  finding  her  way  by  in- 
stinct, with  hands  outstretched,  Yseult  made 
her  way  across  the  room  to  Lilias,  and  flung 
her  arms  about  her  waist,  letting  her  head 
droop.  They  stood  there  in  the  shadow  to- 
gether against  the  window,  and  Lilias  said 
something  to  her,  gently,  as  one  soothes  a  child. 
I  did  not  hear — nor  try  to  hear — what  it  was. 
Rosalys  looked  nervous  questions  at  me.  Yes, 
I  had  nearly  been  present  at  a  little  scene,  and 
that  was  not  as  it  should  be. 

Presently  they  left  the  window  and  sat  down 
by  Rosalys.  "  Otho,"  said  Lilias,  "  will  you  tell 
us  a  story — a  quiet  story?  " 

"  Yes,  do,  Otho, "  said  Yseult.  She  had  sung 
the  spirit  out  of  her,  and  there  were  tears  in 
her  eyes — I  do  not  know  why — I  cannot  under- 
stand women.  She  had  forgotten  to  be  scorn- 
ful. 

This  was  my  story : 


On  the  western  side  of  Philistia  lie  the  Great 
Marshes.  Stretches  of  wet  sand  flash  to  a  sun- 
setting  ;  and  there  are  broad  sheets  of  water  and 
little  pools;  and  all  is  flat,  and  desolate,  and 


164  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

still.  And  on  the  outskirts  of  the  Great  Marsh- 
es runs  a  very  wide  river,  tired,  and  sliding 
slowly.  There  is  an  island  in  it  with  two  tall 
trees  on  the  island  where  the  herons  build,  and 
further  down  the  river  is  a  ferry  and  the  ferry- 
man's cottage. 

It  was  lonely  for  the  ferryman,  because  he 
had  none  other  living  with  him  in  the  cottage. 
The  scenery  did  its  best  to  be  diversified,  but  it 
was  a  poor,  flat  thing ;  and  he  could  not  talk  to 
it,  of  course.  Sometimes  for  days  he  would 
hear  no  human  voice,  because  there  would  be  no 
one  going  to  Philistia  or  coming  from  it  by  way 
of  the  Great  Marshes.  On  those  days  it  seemed 
hard  to  him  that  the  birds  on  their  island  should 
be  happy,  or  that  the  sun  should  be  bright,  or 
that  the  long  tremble  of  the  moon  by  night 
should  turn  the  marshes  to  a  golden  dream. 
Sometimes  he  would  speak  to  himself : 

"Why  do  you  go  on  doing  it?  The  light 
will  come  and  the  darkness  will  follow  with  its 
sleep,  whether  you  live  or  die.  And  all  will  be 
the  same,  whether  you  live  or  die.  For  if  you 
died  another  would  come  to  row  the  folk  across 
the  wide  river,  one  who  would  perhaps  have 
wife  and  child  to  make  a  sweetness  of  this  soli- 
tude. Why  do  you  go  on?  " 

Or  he  would  speak  to  the  river : 

"  River,  why  do  you  go  on  ?  Do  you  not  know 
what  will  be  the  end  of  it — the  awful,  limitless 


WHITE  NIGHTS  165 

sea  where  you  will  be  lost,  lost?  Why  did  you 
come  this  way?  Why  did  you  not  pass  through 
the  city — four  miles  yonder — where  there  are 
children,  and  love,  and  laughter?  Poor  river, 
you  could  not  help  yourself,  just  as  no  man  can 
help  himself.  The  tilt  of  the  land  for  you  and 
the  set  of  circumstances  for  me ;  and  we  both 
go  on." 

On  the  other  side  of  the  river,  nearer  to  Phil- 
istia,  there  stood  a  tall  tower,  and  in  the  tower 
there  hung  a  great  bell ;  so  that  those  who  came 
from  Philistia  and  would  cross  the  wide  river 
might  make  the  bell  speak.  Far  away  on  his 
side  the  ferryman  could  hear  the  bell,  and  would 
bring  his  boat  to  take  the  folk  across. 

Now  one  night  he  lay  awake,  obeying  that 
wise  ordinance  by  which  the  more  a  man  wishes 
to  sleep  and  forget,  the  more  it  is  absolutely 
certain  that  he  will  lie  awake  and  think.  And 
suddenly  he  heard  in  the  distance  on  the  other 
side  of  the  river  the  bell  clanging  irregularly. 

"It  is  a  woman,"  he  thought  to  himself. 
Hurriedly  he  dressed,  and  pulled  his  heavy  old 
boat  across  over  the  still  river  to  the  landing- 
stage.  There  was  a  lantern  burning  there  all 
night,  and  by  its  light  he  saw  on  the  lowest 
step  a  woman  standing — a  strange  figure. 

She  had  an  imperious  face,  but  the  pride  of 
her  gray  eyes  and  firm  mouth  was  touched  and 
softened  by  weariness  and  sorrow.  Over  her 


166  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

hair  and  shoulders  she  had  flung  something  of 
silver  and  gray ;  her  dress  was  white  and  gold, 
and  the  train  of  it  was  flung  over  one  arm ;  he 
could  see  tiny  silken  shoes  and  the  flash  of  gems 
on  the  buckles.  She  was  splendid  in  the  lan- 
tern light,  with  the  screen  of  dark  trees  behind 
her  that  hid  the  roadway.  But  what  did  she 
alone  by  night  in  such  attire? 

She  stepped  into  the  boat,  saying  nothing, 
and  seated  herself  in  the  stern  of  it.  The  ferry- 
man, half-dazed  with  wonder,  began  to  pull 
slowly  back  again  with  his  precious  cargo  of 
gems  and  beauty,  when  he  heard  the  sound  of 
wheels  dying  away  in  the  distance  on  the  road 
that  the  dark  trees  hid.  "  It  is  the  carriage  that 
brought  her,"  he  thought.  When  they  had 
reached  the  middle  of  the  river,  she  spoke  at 
last.  Her  voice  was  a  voice  to  move  men. 

"Kow  no  farther,"  she  said.  "Let  the  boat 
drift;  and  in  an  hour's  time  take  me  back  once 
more  to  the  landing-stage.  My  carriage  will 
have  returned,  and  will  be  waiting  in  the 
road." 

He  bowed  his  head  and  did  as  she  bade 
him,  and  said  nothing.  With  every  tone  of 
her  voice  and  with  every  glance  of  her  gray 
eyes  the  world  was  changing  for  him.  And  it 
would  all  be  for  an  hour — for  an  hour  only. 
She  began  to  speak  once  more : 

"Did  I  wake  you?    No?     I  was  so  weary  of 


WHITE  NIGHTS  167 

it  all.  Every  night  in  the  city  yonder  it  is  the 
same  for  me— dance,  and  mask,  and  pageantry ; 
crowds,  and  brilliancy,  and  glare,  and  empti- 
ness." She  laughed  softly  to  herself;  and  it 
was  to  herself  that  she  seemed  to  be  speaking 
when  she  continued :  "  To-night  I  slipped  away 
unnoticed.  It  was  intolerable,  it  was  stifling. 
And  I  thought  of  this  wide,  silent  river  four 
miles  away ;  I  thought  that  the  quiet,  the  cool- 
ness, the  drifting,  would  be  sweet  for  an  hour. 
Perhaps  even  now  they  are  wondering — won- 
dering." The  night  was  sultry,  and  she  flung 
off  the  shawl  of  silver  and  gray;  the  white 
moonlight  covered  her ;  the  diamonds  sparkled 
in  her  hair  and  on  her  white  neck. 

There  was  a  long  spell  of  silence,  and  then 
she  made  the  ferryman  speak  of  the  ways  of 
birds,  of  the  sandy  ridge  a  mile  away,  high 
above  the  sea,  where  the  yellow  poppies  grew ; 
of  the  legend  about  the  ghost-moth ;  of  his  cot- 
tage ;  of  himself.  "  Alone?  "  she  said ;  "  always 
alone?  Almost  I  would  that  I  were  you.  You 
cannot  think  how  in  the  end  the  monotonous 
brightness  of  life  wearies  and  hurts  one."  She 
did  not  know  what  she  was  doing  with  her 
words  and  her  perfect  presence.  And  the  talk 
went  on,  broken  by  easy  silences. 

A  dark  thought  came  to  the  ferryman.  He 
could  not  live  with  her,  with  this  woman  for 
whom  he  seemed  to  have  been  waiting  all  his 


168  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

life,  for  one  more  hour.  But  it  would  not  be 
hard  to  die  with  her,  going  down  under  the 
sliding  waters.  No,  he  would  not  mar  what  he 
could  not  make. 

And  at  last,  as  they  neared  the  landing-stage 
again,  something  seemed  to  tell  her  that  it  would 
be  kinder  not  to  pay  this  man  in  the  usual 
way.  "I  want  to  give  you  something,"  she 
said.  "  Let  me  give  you  a  new  boat ;  this  is  so 
old." 

He  shook  his  head.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on 
the  purple  flowers  dying  in  the  gemmed  clasp 
at  her  breast.  "  May  I  have  those  flowers?  "  he 
asked. 

Amusement  touched  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 
He  was  the  third  man  who  had  asked  her  for 
them  that  night.  "You  may  not,"  she  said 
shortly.  Two  servants  were  waiting  at  the 
landing-stage,  and  helped  her  from  the  boat. 
She  had  grown  a  little  angry,  and  she  whispered 
a  word  to  one  of  the  servants.  In  obedience  the 
man  flung  a  couple  of  gold  pieces  half-contempt- 
uously  into  the  ferryman's  boat.  The  ferry- 
man murmured  a  word  of  mechanical  thanks 
and  pulled  back  to  the  cottage.  He  made  the 
boat  fast.  As  it  lay  there,  the  moonlight  fell 
on  the  gold  pieces  still  lying  at  the  bottom  of 
the  boat. 

And  the  ferryman  went  into  his  cottage  and 
threw  himself  once  more  upon  his  bed.  "If 


WHITE  NIGHTS  169 

there  is  any  mercy — any  mercy,"  he  cried,  "I 
shall  die  this  night." 

He  did  not  die ;  and  the  nights,  and  days,  and 
loneliness  went  on  as  before ;  and  nothing  was 
changed. 

As  I  went  back  alone  from  the  summer-house 
to  the  palace,  Lilias  came  up  with  me  and 
walked  a  few  steps  by  my  side,  in  silence,  down 
the  great  avenue.  And  then  she  put  one  hand 
lightly  on  my  shoulder : 

"You  are  not  very  happy,  Otho,  are  you?  " 
she  said  gently. 

I  tried  to  speak,  but  my  voice  choked  me.  I 
shook  my  head. 

"Nor  I,  "she  said,  "nor  I." 

3— THE  STORY  OF  SYBIL 

I  WANDERED  aimlessly  out  into  that  part  of 
the  gardens  which  was  called  the  Wilderness. 
I  had  not  been  bidden  to  come  to  the  princesses 
that  night;  and  it  seemed  that  by  this  time 
all  within  the  palace  were  sleeping,  for  all  the 
lights  were  out.  The  day  had  been  stifling  and 
noisy ;  but  now  beyond  the  palace,  in  the  ter- 
raced gardens  and  right  away  to  the  stretch  of 
sleeping  hills,  there  were  cool,  quiet  hours.  A 
shy  wind — red-lipped,  as  I  fancied,  from  secret 
kisses  of  flowers — came  stealing  out,  as  though 


170  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

it  had  been  afraid  to  come  by  day,  lest  it  should 
meet  people  who  would  not  understand  it.  I 
could  hear  the  fall  of  the  fountain,  as  it  whis- 
pered love-stories  to  the  ghost-stars  reflected  in 
its  dark  basin.  Suddenly  in  the  plantation,  a 
little  farther  off,  an  owl  hooted.  It  was  like 
the  cry  of  a  mad  woman.  Then  once  more 
there  were  only  murmurs — whisper  of  wind, 
and  trees,  and  water. 

Over  the  patient  crouching  hills  came  the 
moon,  like  a  golden  spirit  flying  slowly  in  its 
sleep.  The  light  fell  brightly  on  the  gardens  of 
the  palace. 

And  now  I  stood  at  one  side  of  a  broad  lawn, 
and  on  the  farther  side  was  the  plantation. 
All  day  Lilias  had  been  in  my  thoughts,  and  I 
knew  by  sympathy  that  she  was  in  the  night ;  I 
was  not  startled  when  I  saw  her  come  out  from 
the  darkness  of  yonder  trees  on  to  the  lawn. 
She  was  all  in  white — a  peaceful  figure.  She 
had  seen  me,  and  came  toward  me,  stretch- 
ing out  both  hands.  "  Otho,"  she  said,  "  Otho, 
you  too?  I  am  glad,  because  I  want  a  story. 
Rosalys  and  Yseult  are  sleeping,  and  I  thought 
that  I  could  not  send  for  you  because  it  was  so 
late.  Tell  me  a  story  to  take  me  from  my 
thoughts." 

We  walked  together  to  an  old  stone  seat  under 
the  trees.  She  sat  down  there,  and  I  stretched 
myself  on  the  grass  at  her  feet,  waiting  to  see 


WHITE  NIGHTS  171 

my  story  that  I  was  to  tell  her.  I  looked  out 
into  the  night  and  then  upward  to  her.  The 
scent  of  the  white  flowers  that  she  wore  came 
down  to  me ;  almost  I  heard  her  thoughts.  And 
all  the  world  seemed  a  mist  of  dreams  and  pict- 
ures, and  she  alone  was  real.  Life  was  like  a 
tense  string  of  a  'cello,  touched  steadily  by  the 
bow,  vibrating,  pleading.  Suddenly  I  became 
conscious  that  she  was  speaking  to  me.  I  fancy 
she  was  asking  me  if  I  were  tired,  if  I  would 
rather  not  tell  her  a  story  that  night. 
"No,  no,"  I  said,  "I  see  the  story  now." 


There  was  once  a  girl-child  who  had  very 
little  luck  indeed.  She  had  six  sisters  all  of  a 
larger  size  and  of  a  more  comely  appearance 
than  herself,  who  loved  her  and  were  rather 
amused  at  her.  For  she  was  always  demurely 
sad;  and  yet  obviously  wanted  to  be  happy, 
and  thought  a  good  deal  about  different  ways  to 
be  happy. 

"I'm  afraid  she's  not  a  very  pretty  child," 
said  the  eldest  sister,  who  was  a  beauty.  "  Poor 
little  Sybil!  she  will  feel  that  when  she 
grows  up." 

This  was  true.  The  Fates  had  given  Sybil 
short  red  hair,  and  freckles,  and  a  curious,  sal- 
low little  face  that  had  lots  of  thoughts  in  it  but 
no  dimples. 


172  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

When  she  was  quite  a  small  child  her  sisters 
gave  her  a  large  doll  which  was  all  that  mech- 
anism and  wax  could  be.  "That's  to  make 
you  happy,"  said  the  eldest  sister. 

u  Is  it?  "  said  Sybil ;  "  thank  you."  She  took 
the  large  doll  and  squeezed  its  waist  according 
to  instructions,  and  thereout  came  something 
like  a  very  bad  quack. 

"It's  saying  'papa,' "  exclaimed  the  second 
sister. 

"  Is  it?  "  said  Sybil ;  "  thank  you."  Then  she 
kissed  the  large  doll  on  a  portion  of  its  face. 
Now  the  large  doll  was  very  cold  and  tasted 
very  much  of  paint,  and  did  not  kiss  her  back 
again. 

"Thank  you  all  very  much,"  said  Sybil. 
"  And  I  like  you  for  being  so  kind  to  me.  But 
the  doll's  not— not  IT." 

"What's   IT?  "  asked  the  third  sister. 

"I  don't  know  —  the  thing  I  want  most 
badly." 

"We  can  all  of  us  kiss  you,"  explained  the 
eldest  sister,  "  and  we  like  kissing  you,  if  that's 
IT." 

Sybil  shook  her  head.  "  If  you  couldn't  kiss 
me — couldn't  anyhow — and  yet  somehow  did,  I 
believe  that  would  be  something  like  IT." 

And  at  this  Sybil's  six  sisters  smiled  amusedly 
and  said  she  was  a  queer  child,  and  let  her  be. 
And  years  passed ;  and  Sybil  went  on  being  de- 


WHITE   NIGHTS  173 

murely  sad — she  never  grumbled ;  and  she  grew 
taller,  and  older,  but  not  prettier.  On  her  four- 
teenth birthday  she  had  not  yet  found  what  she 
wanted,  and  did  not  yet  know  what  it  was. 
She  went  out  into  the  garden  and  walked  to 
an  archway  where  the  sun  was  blazing.  Round 
the  archway  clematis  grew,  and  one  grand  pur- 
ple flower  touched  her  cheek  as  she  went  under 
the  archway.  She  stopped  short  and  picked  it, 
and  held  it  out  a  little  way  from  her  in  the 
bright  sunlight. 

"You  do  know  me  well,"  she  said.  She  was 
sometimes  rather  shy  in  speaking  her  thoughts 
to  her  sisters;  but  to  inarticulate  beauty  she 
would  often  speak  freely.  "  And  if  I  knew  you 
as  well,  that  would  be  almost — almost  IT." 

Then  she  put  the  flower  in  her  dress.  Her 
eldest  sister  saw  it  there.  "  I  wouldn't  wear 
purple  flowers,  if  I  were  you,  Sybil;  you  see 
your  hair's " 

"Yes,  yes— don't,"  said  Sybil  piteously.  "I 
know — you're  right — I  won't  wear  them  any 
more."  And  she  gave  the  purple  flower  to  her 
sister,  whom  it  suited  admirably.  And  the 
sister  being  pleased  offered  to  kiss  Sybil. 

"  No — not  now, "  pleaded  Sybil. 

"  What  a  quaint  child  you  are !     Why  not?  " 

"Because — because  it  wouldn't  make  any 
difference,"  said  Sybil,  laughing  as  she  went 
away;  and  she  went  straight  upstairs  to  her 


174  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

own  room  and  lay  down  on  her  bed  and  cried 
bitterly  without  knowing  why. 

Two  more  years  passed,  and  many  things 
happened.  Four  of  her  sisters  got  married 
and  one  of  them  died.  And  the  one  that  died 
was  the  happiest,  though  that  has  nothing  to 
do  with  the  story.  So  Sybil  was  left  now  with 
only  one  sister,  whose  name  was  Helen.  At 
sixteen  years  old  Sybil  wanted  IT  more  than 
ever,  and  yet  she  did  not  know  what  it  was. 
And  one  day  she  was  reading  some  queer  verses 
called  "Values,"  by  a  man  who  had  failed  at 
verse  and  quite  a  variety  of  other  things.  And 
these  verses,  not  good  enough  to  quote,  made 
some  impression  upon  her.  They  told  that 
when  work  was  all  done  and  all  ridiculed,  when 
you  were  left  out,  passed  by,  or  even  execrated, 
when  you  saw  that  you  had  done  your  best  and 
that  nobody  thought  it  was  worth  having  done 
— you  need  not  care  if  there  was  one — that  one 
— to  tell  you  not  to  mind,  because  she  knew  and 
understood.  Sybil  read  these  verses  several 
times,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  man  who 
wrote  them  must  have  known  IT. 

She  was  not  seventeen  when  she  first  knew. 
She  saw  a  man  falling  in  love  with  her  sister 
Helen,  and  she  saw  her  sister  fall  very  much  in 
love  with  the  man.  And  for  Sybil  this  man 
was  the  one — that  one.  The  whole  thing 
dawned  on  her  one  evening — an  evening  that 


WHITE   NIGHTS  175 

she  had  got  through  somehow,  she  hardly  knew 
how.  Only  she  was  glad  when  the  man  had 
gone  from  the  house,  and  she  had  said  good- 
night to  Helen  and  found  refuge  in  her  own 
room.  For  a  time  she  stood  before  her  window, 
lonely,  trembling,  hardly  daring  to  think.  Then 
she  turned  to  a  bowl  of  flowers  on  her  table  and 
took  out  one.  It  was  the  ugliest  flower  there,  a 
rose  of  an  unpleasant  pink  color,  very  hard  and 
knob-like,  with  hardly  any  fragrance.  She 
chose  it  because  it  was  such  an  ugly,  forsaken 
little  monstrosity.  And  she  whispered  to  it  all 
her  story — her  ordinary,  commonplace  story— 
that  yet  hurt  her  just  as  much  as  if  it  had  been 
a  novelty  and  worth  putting  in  a  book.  "  Now 
go  to  sleep,"  she  said,  as  she  put  the  rose  back 
in  the  bowl,  "and  don't  tell  the  other  flowers." 
She  was  wondering  if  it  were  possible  that  ugly, 
deformed  rose  had  the  same  kind  of  trouble. 

In  spite  of  trouble  she  slept  for  an  hour,  and 
woke  up  to  find  with  a  kind  of  surprise  that  the 
world  was  going  on  just  the  same.  "Yes," 
she  sighed,  "  that  will  be  the  worst — to  go  on  as 
if  nothing  had  happened,  when  it's  just  every- 
thing for  me  that  has  happened ;  and  not  to  let 
Helen  see;  not  to  let  any  one  even  guess." 

And  blessed  are  the  ugly  failures  who  have 
feelings,  for  their  days  are  generally  long  in 
the  land.  Sybil  lived  to  be  an  old  maid  and 
grew  a  shade  uglier,  and  was  thought  by  some 


176  STORIES  AND    INTERLUDES 

to  be  rather  cantankerous.     She  was  only  rather 
heart-broken. 


Far  away  in  the  East  a  new  day  was  begin- 
ning. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Lilias,  "  it  is  hard  for  women 
who  are  not  beautiful  and  yet  have  hearts.  It's 
harder  always  for  women  than  for  men. " 

We  walked  back  together  toward  the  palace. 
I  wonder  whether  what  she  said  was  true — if 
such  things  really  are  harder  for  women. 

4— THE  STORY  OF  THE  CAPTIVE 

OUR  good,  erratic  king  had  come  back  again 
from  the  Isle  of  Storm.  He  looked  as  if  he 
knew  things  and  as  if  they  pleased  him.  But 
he  was  taken  with  an  unusual  fit  of  discretion 
and  said  nothing.  Sometimes  I  noticed  Lilias 
looking  wistfully  at  him,  as  if  she  had  expected 
a  message.  Yet  there  were  the  old  rumors — 
rumors  that  the  Prince  Hilaro  was  coming  back 
to  us  once  more,  for  the  love  he  had  of  Lilias ; 
and  that  all  would  be  well  when  the  prince 
came  back. 

The  rich  summer  days  went  by  in  a  beautiful 
adagio.  By  day  the  sun  was  hot  and  the  air 
was  still ;  there  was  a  patience  in  everything, 
a  waiting  for  something  to  come.  The  green 
stalks,  growing  all  together,  were  happy,  yet 


WHITE   NIGHTS  177 

longing;  for  they  knew  they  would  be  golden 
and  happier  soon.  The  leaves  of  the  lime-trees 
were  passionate  with  innumerable  bright  trem- 
blings. '*  Yes,  we  will  wait,"  they  said.  "We 
will  wait  quite  calmly.  But,  oh !  to  fall  gently 
down  on  to  the  dark,  fragrant  earth,  and  to  lie 
there  in  cool  brown  quiet  until  the  feet  of  the 
little  children  pass  through  and  make  us  a  rus- 
tling music  for  their  pleasure ! "  But  in  the 
evening  the  clouds  were  sorrowful  because  the 
sun  had  loved  them — kissed  them  until  they 
were  crimson — and  now  he  was  going  away. 
And  at  night  in  the  plantation  the  nightingale 
sang,  "  To  be  beloved  is  the  only  joy ;  and  to 
love  is  the  only  sorrow ;  but  the  miracle  that 
passes  music  comes  when  that  joy  and  sorrow 
meet.  The  silence  of  it  is  silence  on  fire."  The 
frogs  heard  it  and  croaked,  "  Utterly  morbid ! 
utterly  morbid !  "  They  had  the  trained  critical 
taste,  those  frogs.  Yet  the  nightingale,  who 
did  not  sing  exclusively  for  publication,  went 
on :  "  Come  to  me,  fiery  silence !  Come  to  me 
now !  For  of  sorrow,  sorrow  only,  I  am  a- weary. 
Come  to  rne !  " 

On  one  of  these  warm  summer  nights  the 
princesses  and  I  were  together  in  the  south 
room.  The  windows  were  open ;  and  the  moon- 
light came  just  into  the  room,  blending  curi- 
ously with  the  faint  yellow  glow  from  the 
hanging  lamp.  The  great  mastiff,  that  belonged 
12 


178  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

to  Kosalys,  was  stretched  at  the  feet  of  its  mis- 
tress, asleep.  Yseult  lay  back  upon  deep  cush- 
ions, her  hands  clasped  behind  her  head ;  there 
was  generally  a  pretty  kind  of  insolence  in  her 
look,  but  to-night  her  eyes  seem  softer.  Since 
that  night  when  she  sang  I  had  liked  her  better 
— for  all  her  petulance  and  waywardness.  And 
of  Lilias  it  is  not  easy  to  speak.  For  although 
she  was  always  beautiful,  at  certain  times  her 
beauty  was  more  eloquent  than  at  others.  The 
gray  eyes  go  to  Paradise;  her  eyes  to-night 
seemed  as  though  already  they  saw  within  the 
gates. 

I  have  often  wondered  that  I  dared  to  tell 
Lilias  any  stories  at  all. 

This  was  the  story  that  I  told  her: 


"And  so,"  said  the  king  not  unkindly,  "they 
took  you  away,  did  they?  " 

He  was  a  young  king  and  quite  new  to  the 
conquering  business.  His  father,  whom  he 
had  succeeded,  had  done  well  at  it.  His  minis- 
ters had  told  him  that  it  was  among  the  dearest 
traditions  of  his  country.  So  he  had  done  a 
little — just  a  very  little — conquering ;  and  now 
he  was  trying  to  look  at  it  from  the  point  of 
view  of  the  conquered.  He  was  talking  it  over 
with  one  of  the  captives.  The  captive  whom 
he  had  chosen  for  this  purpose  was  a  woman, 


WHITE   NIGHTS  179 

young  and  most  wickedly  beautiful.     He  was  a 
king,  but  he  was  also  a  man. 

The  king  and  the  captive  were  alone  together. 
It  was  a  quaint  room,  hung  with  dim  tapestries, 
lit  by  tapers  placed  in  little  groups.  There 
were  spots  of  light  in  the  room,  and  corners 
where  the  shadows  were  deep  and  dark.  There 
were  rugs  lying  loosely  on  the  black  polished 
floor.  The  king  himself  was  lounging  care- 
lessly in  the  deep  window-seat;  he  had  the 
curious,  half -reckless  look  that  comes  from  too 
much  happiness  and  success.  Behind  him  were 
the  leaded,  diamond-shaped  panes  of  greenish 
glass.  Old  trees  growing  just  outside  stretched 
thin  arms  and  tapped  lightly  on  the  glass  when 
the  wind  blew ;  behind  the  trees  one  saw  a  flat 
country  meeting  a  deep  gray  sky  with  a  young 
moon  in  it  and  as  many  stars  as  it  wanted. 
The  captive  had  stretched  herself  at  full  length 
on  a  low  couch  in  a  recess  of  the  room,  facing 
the  king.  There  was  the  grace  of  an  untrained 
flower  about  her.  Her  hair  was  midnight,  her 
eyes  were  all  sleep  and  fire  with  long  dark 
lashes;  her  lips  were  red.  She  was  pale,  almost 
dusky — no  pink-and-white  beauty.  Her  dress 
was  scarlet  and  gold,  a  barbaric  dress ;  but  it 
loved  her  and  went  the  way  that  made  her  most 
impressive.  It  was  clasped  at  her  breast  by  a 
strange  serpent,  wrought  in  gold,  with  diamond 
eyes  that  laughed  to  the  taper-light  as  she 


180  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

breathed.  One  hand  held  a  long  spray  of 
heavily  scented  white  flowers.  The  other  was 
thrust  into  the  loose  girdle  of  her  dress ;  yes,  it 
was  there — a  slight,  curved  blade,  but  it  would 
suffice. 

"  And  so  they  took  you  away? "  the  king 
said. 

She  turned  her  eyes  from  him  and  answered : 
"Yes,  they  took  me  away.  My  sister  was 
murdered  by  them.  All  whom  I  loved  were 
murdered  by  them.  They  burnt  down  our 
house  and  laid  waste  our  lands.  And  they 
treated  me  most  courteously — sweetly,  kindly— 
and  that  was  the  cruellest  thing  of  all."  Her 
voice  had  been  soft  and  musical;  there  had 
been  no  anger  in  it;  yet  there  was  a  moment's 
glimpse  of  set  white  teeth  between  her  red  lips 
at  the  close  of  the  sentence.  Suddenly  she  re- 
membered that  her  words  were  ill-advised;  it 
was  her  plan  to  charm  the  young  king  to  her, 
to  win  him  as  most  women  can  win  most  men, 
and  then  at  the  right  moment  to  strike  with  the 
poisoned  dagger  that  she  had  hidden  in  her  dress. 
"It  was  the  king's  pleasure,"  she  added. 
"Shall  not  a  king  do  as  he  will?"  Her  little 
fingers  clasped  firmly  the  graven  gold  that  made 
the  handle  of  her  blade.  She  was  surprised 
that  the  king  did  not  speak ;  she  had  been  half 
afraid  that  he  would  be  angry  with  her  and 
send  her  away. 


WHITE   NIGHTS  181 

"  It  was  not  my  pleasure, "  the  king  said  at 
last.  "  I  do  not  make  war  on  women.  I  was 
not  there — I  never  knew  such  things  were  hap- 
pening. But  why — why  should  I  excuse  myself 
to  you  ?  You  can  never  forgive  me — for  I  should 
have  seen  that  such  things  did  not  happen.  I 
will  conquer  no  more. " 

"That  is  true,"  the  woman  thought  to  her- 
self, "I  shall  not  forgive  you,  and  you  will 
certainly  conquer  no  more. "  She  looked  straight 
into  his  eyes ;  the  expression  of  his  face  had 
changed ;  it  was  troubled ;  he  was  looking  fixedly 
at  her.  She  began  to  tell  him  of  her  country ; 
her  voice  was  soft  and  alluring;  with  every 
word  she  drew  the  spell  closer  round  him.  Yes, 
she  had  made  her  plan  well  when  she  had 
based  it  on  the  fact  that  the  king  was  a  man. 

"  For  the  harm  that  I  have  done  I  will  pay 
to  the  uttermost,  as  far  as  man  can,"  said  the 
king. 

The  woman  smiled.  "That  also,"  she 
thought,  "was  quite  true." 

"  But  I  am  glad  that  they  were  kind  to  you," 
the  king  added.  "Why  was  that?  Yes,  I 
remember,  you  can  sing.  They  thought  that  I 
should  like  to  hear  you  sing.  Your  name  is 
Enid,  is  it  not?  " 

"  That  is  my  name.     I  will  sing  for  you,  I 

will "  she  checked  herself,  and  made  her  eyes 

look  passionate,  unspeakable  things.     Swift  as 


182  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

light  the  passion  flashed  back  from  the  eyes  of 
the  king.  Why  did  she  quiver  under  it — thrill 
under  it?  She  explained  it  to  herself  that  it 
was  just  from  the  joy  of  vengeance. 

"  It  was  war  for  the  sake  of  war,"  the  king 
said  sadly.  "  My  ministers  advised  me  into  it. 
Surely  there  must  be  something  which  I  can  do 
to  make  amends." 

And  then  for  a  long  time  they  talked  about 
the  war.  And  all  the  time  Enid  felt  that  it 
would  have  been  easier  for  her  if  the  king  had 
been  somehow  different.  Why  was  he  so 
gentle?  Why  did  he  seem  to  want  her  sympa- 
thy and  pity?  Worse  yet — why  did  he  almost 
get  them?  She  found  herself  saying  that  the 
cruelty  of  the  war  was  not  his  fault — and  be- 
lieving it.  A  chance  word  of  the  king's — he 
happened  to  speak  of  "  victory  " — brought  her 
back  again  to  her  plot.  "  I  will  do  it.  I  can 
do  it,"  she  said  to  herself.  Just  then  the  king 
happened  to  ask  if  there  were  anything  that  he 
could  do  to  make  her  happier. 

"Nothing,  I  think— I  don't  know.  It  is 
lonely,  very  lonely ;  and  I  am  not  one  of  those 
that  suffer  it  easily.  The  palace  is  beautiful ; 
the  whole  of  your  kingdom  is  beautiful ;  and  I 
am  no  longer  angry  that  you  are  kind  to  me. 
But  that  is  not  enough  for  the  happiness  of  a 
woman.  I  want  more.  I  want  sympathy.  I 
want — oh,  I  say  too  much ! " 


WHITE  NIGHTS  183 

She  had  risen  from  the  low  couch,  and  stood 
with  swimming  eyes  and  outstretched  hands. 
It  was  brilliant  art — or  perfect  nature. 

"  Enid !  Enid ! "  said  the  king  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  will  sing  to  you,"  she  said.  She  took  her 
mandolin  from  a  table  near  her  and  ran  her 
fingers  over  it  to  see  if  it  was  in  tune.  Then 
she  began  to  put  out  the  taper-lights  one  by 
one.  "It  is  a  song  that  is  best  sung  in  the 
darkness."  She  knew  that  if  she  saw  his  face 
she  would  not  be  able  to  kill  him.  Then  she 
seated  herself  on  the  couch  again. 

She  sang  the  first  verse.  It  was  a  love-song. 
The  music  to  it  was  the  music  that  takes  tight 
hold  of  one.  The  appeal  of  it  was  irresistible. 
There  was  just  enough  light  came  through  the 
windows  to  show  her  that  the  young  king  had 
sprung  from  his  place.  He  came  rapidly  across 
the  room  to  her.  She  flung  the  mandolin  on 
one  side  and  began  to  feel  hurriedly  for  the 
dagger. 

But  already  he  held  her  hands.  She  was 
standing  up  now,  swaying.  Lights  seemed  to 
be  dancing  through  the  darkness  before  her 
eyes. 

"  Enid !  "  he  was  saying.  "  Forgive  me !  I 
love  you.  It  is  you  that  have  conquered ;  I  am 
the  captive." 

"No,  no,"  she  answered.  "You  have  con- 
quered once  more.  For  I  meant  to  kill  you, 


184  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

and  now — now — I  love  you  more  than  my  life 
— more  than  all  the  world."  And  the  rest  of 
their  words  were  whispers  in  the  darkness — 
broken  with  long  kisses  and  the  happiest  tears. 
For  she  had  remembered  that  the  king  was  a 
man;  but  she  had  forgotten  that  she  herself 
was  a  woman. 

"But  that  is  quite  wrong,"  said  Yseult. 
"She  would  have  killed  him  first  and  found 
out  that  she  loved  him  afterward." 

5— THE  STORY  OF  AN  EXPERIMENT 

IT  was  soon  after  this  that  the  betrothal  of 
Princess  Lilias  and  the  Prince  Hilaro  was  an- 
nounced. I  know  nothing  of  the  way  in  which 
the  betrothal  took  place,  except  that  Prince 
Hilaro  sent  a  messenger  to  our  court,  bearing 
letters  for  the  king  and  Princess  Lilias.  The 
announcement  had  been  constantly  expected, 
and  yet  it  surprised  us  when  it  came.  A  change 
took  place  in  Lilias ;  her  eyes  grew  wonderfully 
bright  and  eager.  There  was  a  faint,  beautiful 
color  in  her  cheeks.  She  walked  erect,  her  head 
a  little  thrown  back.  Great  passion  is  only 
possible  to  those  of  great  spirituality.  Now, 
as  ever  before,  Lilias  was  beyond  us  and  above 
us.  Her  sisters,  Rosalys  and  Yseult,  now  that 
she  was  so  soon  to  leave  them,  petted  her  more 


WHITE   NIGHTS  185 

than  ever  and  made  much  of  her.  Yet  even 
at  this  time  I  knew  that  something  was  wrong 
with  Yseult.  Sometimes  she  seemed  to  me  to 
be  acting  a  part;  sometimes  she  would  spend 
whole  days  in  solitude;  sometimes  she  would 
seem  almost  to  shrink  from  Lilias.  But  no 
one  thought  this  of  any  importance.  "  Yseult 
is  always  wayward."  Rosalys  said  to  me. 

Joy  as  well  as  sorrow  has  its  insomnia,  but 
many  of  these  sweet  summer  nights  Princess 
Lilias  could  not  sleep,  and  sent  for  me  to  tell 
her  stories.  I  have  already  said  that  I  am  con- 
demned to  die;  my  time  is  very  short  and  I 
cannot  write  down  all  those  stories.  I  knew 
that  if  any  man  in  the  world  was  worthy  of 
Lilias,  Hilaro  was  that  man.  He  was  brave 
and  good  and  beautiful;  rich  and  of  high  birth. 
And  to  the  man  that  had  much,  much  was 
given.  And  I,  who  had  nothing,  was  allowed 
to  sit  at  the  feet  of  Princess  Lilias  and  tell  her 
stories.  I  would  not  think  about  it.  It  was 
too  humorous ;  and  one  does  not  care  to  think 
about  his  own  tragedy,  when  even  he  himself 
can  see  that  that  tragedy  is  farcical. 

I  am  going  to  write  now  the  story  of  the  last 
night  but  one.  It  was  expected  that  on  the 
following  day  Prince  Hilaro  would  sail  from 
his  own  island,  and  would  arrive  by  the  next 
dawn  at  the  court. 

The  king  and  several  of  the  courtiers  hap- 


186  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

pened  to  have  joined  the  princesses  to  listen  to 
the  story.  They  were  all  grouped  together  at 
one  end  of  the  great  hall,  where  the  lights  were 
placed;  the  farther  end  of  the  hall  was  quite 
dark.  Yseult  had  been  playing  to  us  and  sing- 
ing ;  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  me,  with  guesses 
in  them.  I  sat  crouched  in  the  shadow.  I  al- 
most thought  that  Yseult  had  guessed  my 
secret.  It  did  not  matter.  Lilias  did  not  know. 
When  the  news  of  her  betrothal  had  first  been 
announced  I  had  put  the  whole  thing  from  me 
and  had  refused  to  think  about  it ;  but  all  this 
day  I  had  had  to  think  about  it.  It  came  be- 
tween me  and  everything.  I  could  not  get  past 
it.  I  had  a  consciousness  that  I  was  mastered. 

All  day  the  air  had  been  still,  heavy,  sultry ; 
at  evening  the  clouds  drew  themselves  together 
and  waited  in  blackness  and  anger.  As  the 
last  notes  of  the  music  ceased,  a  flash  of  light- 
ning, strangely  bright,  shone  over  us.  The 
darkness  at  the  farther  end  of  the  hall  ran  away 
from  it,  and  for  a  moment  let  us  see  the  dark 
panelling  and  the  dim  portraits  in  the  deep 
frames  above.  The  king  involuntarily  put  his 
hand  over  his  eyes  and  shrank  back  a  little. 

"  But  that  was  fierce ! "  he  said. 

Almost  immediately  the  high  windows  began 
to  rattle ;  low  and  quivering,  then  sonorous  and 
prolonged,  came  the  rattle  of  the  thunder.  Then 
followed  the  swift  kiss  of  the  rain.  Yseult 


WHITE   NIGHTS  187 

laughed  and  touched  the  harp-strings.  It  was 
the  melody  of  "  The  Song  of  Hate  "  whispered. 
Then  another  flash  tore  at  the  darkness  with  its 
white  fingers. 

"Thank  Heaven!"  said  the  king,  "that  it  is 
to-morrow  night,  and  not  to-night,  that  the 
Prince  Hilaro  will  be  on  the  sea." 

As  he  said  these  words  it  happened  that  I— 
and  I  alone — was  closely  watching  the  Princess 
Yseult.  She  half-started  from  her  place,  one 
hand  moved  to  her  throat,  her  color  changed, 
and  her  eyes — well,  there  was  more  in  them 
than  I  cared  to  think  about. 

But  this  much  I  knew,  and  had  not  known 
before,  that  Yseult  loved  Prince  Hilaro.  Under 
those  light,  wayward  moods — those  flashes  of 
temper  and  tenderness — there  had  been  a  deep 
current  that  we  had  never  been  allowed  to  see. 
I  was  to  learn  something  of  its  tragic  intensity 
later  on  this  night.  I  guessed  even  then  that  in 
some  way  or  other  Yseult  knew  that  Prince 
Hilaro  would  be  crossing  the  sea  that  night, 
and  not — as  the  rest  of  us  thought — on  the  mor- 
row's night.  I  know  now,  by  the  light  of  the 
events  which  followed,  that  while  she  was  play- 
ing, singing,  laughing  this  evening,  she  must 
have  been  maddened  with  love  and  jealousy. 

It  was  quite  a  short  story  that  I  told  this 
night. 


188  STORIES  AND   INTERLUDES 

There  were  once  two  brothers  of  a  royal  house. 
One  of  them,  Bertillon,  was  born  in  the  spring- 
time; his  younger  brother  Bruno  was  born 
eighteen  months  afterward  in  the  autumn.  As 
soon  as  they  were  old  enough  to  do  anything 
they  both  began  to  hate.  They  hated  one  an- 
other. 

In  all  things  they  were  too  well  matched.  In 
appearance  they  were  alike;  in  the  field  their 
prowess  was  equal;  none  could  say  that  one 
was  more  quick-witted  than  the  other.  As  they 
grew  up  their  hatred  increased. 

"Bertillon,"  said  Bruno  one  day,  "if  you 
were  only  a  little  better  than  I  am,  I  could  bear 
with  you.  But  you  are  not.  Your  sole  superi- 
ority lies  in  age ;  you  have  the  virtue  of  an 
antique. " 

"Bruno,"  answered  the  elder  brother,  "be  a 
little  worse  than  I  am,  and  I  will  forgive  you 
for  existing;  you  are  only  inferior  in  years; 
you  inspire  the  same  disgust  as  an  excellent 
replica." 

When  the  king,  their  father,  died,  Bertillon 
by  reason  of  his  superior  age  ascended  the 
throne ;  and  Bruno,  supported  by  a  small  section 
of  the  province  and  with  a  hopelessly  inferior 
army,  made  war  upon  him.  In  this  war  Bruno 
was  defeated;  and,  being  taken  prisoner,  was 
sentenced  to  death  for  his  treason  by  his  brother 
Bertillon. 


WHITE   NIGHTS  189 

"But,"  said  Bertillon,  "I  will  not  tell  you  on 
what  day  you  will  die.  You  will  be  allowed  a 
moderate  liberty,  within  the  prison  walls ;  you 
may  amuse  yourself  as  you  will ;  one  day  when 
you  are  not  expecting  it,  when  you  are  in  the 
middle  of  some  story  that  interests  you,  when 
you  have  begun  to  think  that  I  must  have  for- 
given you — the  man  to  whom  this  is  appointed 
will  bring  you  the  poisoned  cup.  Perhaps  you 
will  be  made  to  drink  it ;  and  perhaps  the  man 
will  only  frighten  you,  laugh  at  you,  and  take 
the  cup  away  again  for  a  time.  I  shall  have 
you  watched,  so  that  you  will  not  be  able  to 
take  your  own  life.  I  shall  play  with  you.  It 
will  amuse  me." 

"  There  must  be  two  to  every  game, "  said  Bru- 
no. "  Nothing  that  you  can  do  will  make  the 
least  difference  to  me.  You  are  an  antique,  you 
know,  and  sooner  than  you  think  3'our  passion 
for  being  the  only  extant  specimen  will  get  the 
better  of  you,  and  you  will  kill  me.  You  have 
not  even  the  strength  to  carry  out  your  own 
paltry  plans." 

As  soon  as  Bruno  had  been  removed,  Bertillon 
turned  to  his  councillors : 

"  This  is  a  little  experiment  of  mine.  I  am 
not  really  going  to  kill  my  brother  Bruno  at  all. 
He  will  really  be  in  just  the  same  position  as 
any  one  of  us,  except  that  he  will  think  about  it. 
Any  one  of  us  may  die  on  any  day,  at  any 


190  STORIES   AND    INTERLUDES 

hour  or  moment ;  but  we  never  think  about  it, 
and  consequently  it  does  not  hurt  us.  Now 
Bruno  will  be  asking  himself  every  moment  if 
he  has  another  moment  to  live — if  it  is  worth 
while  to  begin  anything,  since  he  may  not  be 
able  to  finish  it.  He  will  think  about  it,  and 
consequently  he  will  go  mad!" 

In  three  weeks'  time  Bruno  gave  in  and  sent 
a  humble  petition  that  he  might  be  killed  at 
once.  "For,"  he  said,  "I  would  sooner  lose 
my  life  than  my  reason." 

"You  are  amusing  me,"  was  the  message 
that  Bertillon  sent  back. 

"I  shall  not  amuse  you  any  more,"  was 
Bruno's  reply.  Nor  did  he.  It  had  suddenly 
occurred  to  him  that  he  was  in  no  worse  position 
than  any  one  else ;  all  must  die,  and  none  knows 
when.  He  resolutely  put  the  whole  thing  from 
his  mind,  and  lived  a  very  cheerful,  pleasant 
life. 

But,  as  it  happened,  Bertillon,  in  devising 
this  punishment,  had  pictured  to  himself  rather 
too  vividly  this  awful  uncertainty.  The  thought 
of  it  had  fixed  its  claws  in  his  consciousness 
and  could  not  be  torn  away.  By  day  and  night 
it  haunted  him.  He  constantly  heard  a  voice 
warning  him,  "  There  may  be  but  one  hour  be- 
tween you  and  the  hereafter." 

So  it  happened  curiously  enough  that  it  was 


WHITE   NIGHTS  191 

Bertillon,  not  Bruno,   who  went  mad.     Bruno 
succeeded  him. 

The  only  real  things  in  this  life  are  the  things 
which  exist  solely  in  the  imagination. 


The  storm  had  ceased.  As  I  passed  out  of 
the  great  hall  into  the  palace  gardens,  Lilias 
followed  me. 

"  Otho,"  she  said,  "  to-morrow  night  you  must 
tell  me  another  story,  for  Prince  Hilaro  will 
not  arrive  until  dawn.  And  then — then  there 
will  be  no  more  need  for  stories.  I  am  not  un- 
happy any  longer  now,  Otho.  You  have  been 
good  to  me — is  there  nothing  that  I  could  do  for 
you?  " 

She  really  did  not  know ;  I  wonder  why. 

I  walked  away  in  the  direction  of  the  coast 
that  night.  It  was  five  miles  from  the  palace. 
I  felt  sure  that  Prince  Hilaro  would  arrive 
this  night,  and  that  Yseult  not  only  knew  it, 
but  was  the  cause  of  it.  I  thought  it  better  to 
be  there,  for  I  had  seen  for  one  second  into 
Yseult 's  real  nature,  and  I  hardly  knew  what 
she  would  do.  On  reaching  the  cliff  I  could 
see  nothing,  and  being  very  tired,  I  flung  myself 
down  in  the  wet,  long  grasses  that  met  over  my 
head,  and  slept.  It  was  gray  dawn  when  I 
was  wakened  by  hearing  voices. 


192  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

They  were  the  voices  of  Prince  Hilaro  and 
Yseult.  Raising  myself  slightly,  I  saw  that 
they  were  standing  on  the  cliff  edge  a  few  yards 
from  me. 

"I  did  as  your  letter  asked,"  he  was  saying. 
"  I  came  a  day  sooner,  and  met  you  here  alone, 
secretly,  at  this  hour  as  you  wished,  because  you 
said  it  was  necessary  for  the  happiness  of  Lilias. 
And  now  you  have  nothing  to  say  but  to  ask 
me  if  I  love  her?  " 

Yseult  laughed  lightly.  "  I  love  Lilias  better 
than  any  in  the  world — save  one.  I  would 
give  her  my  life,  my  soul,  everything — except 
one." 

I  crept  a  little  closer,  for  I  knew  now  what 
she  would  do.  But  it  came  sooner  than  I  had 
thought. 

"What  is  that  one?" 

"  You,  Hilaro !  "  she  cried,  suddenly  letting 
her  voice  go  as  it  would — "you,  whom  I  love— 
and  hate!" 

With  these  words  she  thrust  suddenly  at  him 
with  a  short,  curved  knife  that  she  had  held 
concealed.  The  blade  went  into  his  throat,  and 
he  staggered  backward  over  the  cliff.  I  was 
just  in  time  to  drag  her  back  from  flinging  her- 
self after  him. 

"  Otho !  Otho !  "  she  said,  panting  for  breath, 
"  I  have  killed  him.  Let  me  go." 

I  took  her  backward  a  few  paces  from  the  cliff 


WHITE   NIGHTS  193 

edge  and  looked  into  her  eyes.  "Now  you 
may  go, "  I  said ;  "  kill  yourself  also. " 

She  swayed  and  fell  face  downward  in  the 
2^rass,  moaning :  "  I  dare  not  die !  Otho,  I  dare 
not  die ! "  I  had  seen  that  in  her  eyes. 

And  there,  after  a  little  while,  in  the  gray 
dawn  I  showed  her  what  she  must  do. 

6 — THE  STORY  OF  A  PICTURE 

I  HAD  but  a  short  time  in  which  to  persuade 
Yseult  to  agree  to  the  plan  which  I  had  formed ; 
for  it  was  necessary  that  we  should  both  return 
to  the  palace  and  enter  it  unobserved  while  all 
were  still  sleeping.  She  was  shaken  with  ex- 
citement, terror,  fever ;  but  she  had  no  remorse. 

At  last  I  made  her  believe  all  that  was  neces- 
sary— that  the  murder  of  Hilaro  had  been  com- 
mitted in  an  hour  of  madness,  and  was  not 
really  murder;  that  Lilias  must  never  know 
that  the  sister  she  loved  had  killed  the  man  she 
loved ;  and  that  if  I  took  the  guilt  and  paid  the 
penalty  it  would  be  best. 

"But,"  said  Yseult,  "if  I  take  your  life  to 
save  mine,  that  will  be  murder  indeed." 

I  forget  what  lie  I  told  her  in  answer  to  this. 
But  I  persuaded  her.  She  clung  desperately  to 
life.  As  we  returned  she  grew  quite  calm,  and 
was  far  more  ready  and  skilful  than  I  in  arrang- 
ing the  details  of  the  plan.  I  could  not  think 
13 


194  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

very  well.  I  was  tired  out — soul  and  body — 
and  wanted  to  sleep.  After  a  time,  I  just  heard 
her  speaking  without  understanding  what  she 
said. 

When  I  got  to  my  own  room  I  slept  easily 
and  dreamlessly.  It  was  late  in  the  day  when 
I  woke  again,  and  the  setting  sun  was  shining 
in  at  my  windows.  Underneath  them  I  heard 
the  voices  of  the  three  princesses  as  they  passed 
down  the  steps  of  the  terrace.  Rosalys  was 
laughing.  So  the  body,  shattered  and  spoiled 
by  the  knife  and  the  jagged  rocks,  had  not  yet 
been  found.  The  prince's  companions  were  to 
come  ashore  to-night,  and  had  been  ordered  to 
meet  him  on  the  cliff.  Yseult  had  told  me  this. 
They  would  find  the  body  and  bring  it  with 
them  to  the  palace. 

That  night  I  told  a  story  to  the  three  princesses 
under  the  open  sky,  on  a  broad  lawn  in  the  palace 
gardens.  I  knew  that  Lilias  had  chosen  this 
spot  because  from  it  she  could  see  the  road  to  the 
palace,  bending  with  a  broad,  white  curve  in  the 
moonlight.  She  thought  that  her  lover  would 
come  by  that  way  before  the  dawn,  with  music 
and  gladness,  strong  and  beautiful,  with  the 
retinue  from  his  court  attending  him.  She 
wished  to  be  among  the  first  to  welcome  him 
and  do  him  honor.  Her  eyes  were  bright  with 
ecstasy. 

Both  Rosalys  and  Lilias  were  very  affection- 


WHITE   NIGHTS  195 

ate  with  Yseult  that  night.  "  Poor  Yseult  has 
hardly  spoken  a  word  all  day,"  said  Rosalys. 
"You  are  not  ill,  Yseult,  are  you?  " 

She  shook  her  head  sadly.  She  was  acting 
her  part  to  perfection. 

"And  now  tell  your  story,"  said  Rosalys, 
turning  to  me.  "  There  will  be  little  sleep  to- 
night for  any  of  us.  All  within  the  palace  are 
busy  preparing  to  receive  the  prince.  There  is 
a  watchman  on  the  towers  who  will  see  the 
lights  that  the  prince's  company  will  carry  as 
they  come  down  yonder  road,  and  will  give  the 
signal  of  his  approach.  Then  all  the  palace  will 
be  lit  up,  and  there  will  be  music  and  revelry." 

So  I  began  my  story. 


As  generally  happens,  these  two  people,  who 
had  not  long  been  married,  were  coming  down 
from  the  heights.  He,  the  poet,  felt  almost 
with  regret  the  vanishing  of  that  fierce  sense  of 
exaltation  which  had  been  his  when  he  first 
knew  that  this  woman  loved  him,  and  trembled 
in  knowing  it.  He  could  recall  old  days,  before 
he  had  spoken,  when  he  had  weighed  each 
chance  word  that  he  heard  from  her  and  drawn 
from  it  ecstasy  or  despair,  when  every  moment 
that  he  did  not  see  her  had  seemed  to  him  blank 
and  wasted.  He  had  not  ceased  to  love  her 
now;  only  there  were  no  more  discoveries  to 


196  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

make  and  nothing  more  to  say,  and  vain  repeti- 
tion had  drawn  all  the  sweetness  from  sweet 
love- words.  It  was  quiet,  placid  love.  He  was 
so  sure  of  it  that  he  could  put  it  from  his  mind 
for  a  little.  There  had  been  days,  he  remem- 
bered, when  he  had  been  unable  to  write  or  read 
for  thinking  of  one  thing ;  there  had  been  nights 
when  he  had  been  unable  to  sleep  for  continued 
thinking  of  one  thing.  They  never  came  now. 
She  felt  the  change  too.  She  had  fallen  in  love 
with  the  poet — almost  with  the  reputation ;  she 
had  married  the  man.  The  days  of  fears,  of 
hopes,  of  secrets,  of  idealizing  were  over.  She 
loved  him  still,  but  without  any  illusions,  with- 
out honestly  thinking  herself  honored  by  his 
love.  He  had  just  that  little  kink  in  the  brain, 
just  that  tiny  turn  of  the  temperament,  which 
makes  the  difference^  between  the  poet  and  the 
ordinary  man ;  but  in  most  things  he  was  only 
ordinary.  And  their  love  was  becoming  ordi- 
nary too.  They  no  longer  felt  that  all  the  rest  of 
the  world  lay  fathomless  depths  below  them ;  they 
no  longer  felt  angry  with  all  other  people  for  their 
gross  impertinence  in  existing ;  on  the  contrary, 
they  were  rather  pleased  when  some  of  the  rest 
of  the  world  came  to  see  them.  It  made  a 
change. 

And  yet  they  loved  one  another — in  the  or- 
dinary, quiet  way — until  that  fateful  time 
when  he  had  her  portrait  painted  by  Raoul.  A 


WHITE   NIGHTS  197 

portrait  by  Raoul  was  generally  a  revelation  of 
the  person  painted.  "That  is  like  my  son,"  a 
woman  said,  looking  at  his  portrait  by  Raoul; 
"  but  there  is  a  look  in  the  face  which  my  son 
never  has — it  is  the  look  of  a  murderer."  Three 
years  afterward,  at  her  son's  execution,  she 
remembered  that  she  had  said  that.  "  It's  quite 
true,"  a  girl  said  to  herself,  looking  at  her  own 
portrait  by  Raoul,  "  but  I  had  never  told  any 
one — how  did  he  know?  "  It  was  acknowledged 
that  he  was  the  greatest  portrait  painter  of  his 
time  and  country — if  he  would  only  give  up 
playing  little  tricks  to  amuse  himself.  He  was 
also  accused  of  laziness ;  and  it  is  certain  that 
he  did  not  devote  himself  now,  as  he  had  done 
in  his  younger  days,  wholly  to  art.  He  had 
taken  up  with  sundry  curious  studies,  and  his 
success  had  made  him  melancholy,  taciturn,  sar- 
donical.  He  was  middle-aged,  unmarried,  and 
rather  displeasing  in  manner.  When  he  had 
finished  the  portrait  of  the  poet's  wife,  he 
smiled.  Raoul  seldom  smiled,  but  the  poet's 
wife  had  interested  him,  and  he  had  just  made 
a  little  experiment. 

For  a  few  weeks  he  heard  nothing,  and  then 
the  woman  came  to  his  studio,  attended  only  by 
one  servant,  who  carried  the  portrait.  At  her 
orders  the  man  put  the  portrait  down  and  left 
her  alone  with  Raoul. 

"Raoul,"  she  said,   "my  husband  is  away, 


198  STORIES  AND  INTERLUDES 

and  I  want  you  to  alter  your  portrait  of  me 
before  he  returns." 

Raoul  did  not  seem  surprised.  He  hummed 
a  fragment  of  a  tune  and  glanced  at  her  from 
head  to  foot. 

"  Why  have  you  been  crying? "  he  asked 
bluntly. 

"  I  have  not  been  crying." 

The  artist  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  went 
on  humming  his  tune.  Suddenly  he  stopped. 
"  If  you  tell  me  lies—  "  he  began.  Then  he 
stopped  again,  for  there  was  no  doubt  that  the 
woman  was  crying  now.  He  sat  down  and 
waited  patiently ;  she  told  a  strange  story  in 
between  her  sobs. 

In  brief,  she  said  that  her  husband  had,  ever 
since  the  arrival  of  the  portrait,  ceased  to  love 
her.  He  had  been  absolutely  cold  to  her, 
shunned  her  society,  had  never  even  spoken  to 
her  if  he  could  avoid  it.  "But,"  she  said,  "he 
has  fallen  wildly  in  love  with  my  portrait.  All 
day  he  keeps  it  before  him.  He  cares  for  noth- 
ing but  to  look  at  it.  It  is  an  absurdity — a 
madness ;  but  it  makes  me  wretched,  for  I  never 
loved  him  so  much  in  my  life  before.  Oh,  it  is 
brutal  of  you  to  make  me  tell  you  this !  What 
is  it?  What  have  you  put  into  the  portrait  that 
I  have  not  got?  " 

"Nothing,"  replied  Raoul,  "absolutely  noth- 


WHITE   NIGHTS  199 

ing.  I  have  simply  left  something  out.  I  have 
painted  you  as  though  you  had  never  loved  and 
would  not  love.  He  is  a  poet  and  is  chiefly 
attracted  by  the  unattainable. " 

"  They  told  me  that  in  the  portrait  I  looked 
too  cold." 

"  Too  cold?  Yes,  that  is  one  sign — one  very 
little  sign,  but  it  is  not  all,  or  nearly  all.  What 
I  have  done  is  not  merely  a  trick  of  expression. 
They  do  not  understand — these  people.  But 
your  husband  is  a  poet — understands  more  than 
he  can  explain." 

"Will  you  alter  it?" 

"  No,  I  should  spoil  it.  Not  that  I  care  for 
art — except  as  a  means  to  mastery.  Mastery 
is  what  I  want — to  make  people  do  things,  feel 
things,  see  things,  just  as  I  want — to  get  a  grip 
of  people  without  their  knowing  how." 

He  looked  at  her  again,  very  curiously.  Then 
he  took  the  portrait  to  the  light  and  carefully 
examined  it.  "  Ah ! "  he  exclaimed  under  his 
breath.  Then  he  turned  to  the  woman. 

"  Go  away.  You  shall  have  the  portrait  this 
evening,  and  your  husband  will  soon  give  up 
loving  it.  You  may  take  my  word  for  it.  I 
have  changed  my  mind." 

As  soon  as  she  had  gone  he  went  from  his 
studio  to  a  room  which  was  fitted  as  a  labora- 
tory, and  returned  with  a  little  bottle  containing 


200  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

some  colorless  oily  stuff.  He  began  to  work, 
using  great  precautions.  Then  he  sent  the  por- 
trait back. 

The  poet's  wife  hung  the  picture  once  more 
in  her  husband's  study  in  its  usual  place,  and 
lit  the  candles  that  stood  below  it.  She  could 
see  that  the  lips  in  the  portrait  had  been  just 
touched,  but  she  could  not  see  that  any  difference 
had  been  made.  Then  she  went  to  bed. 

Later  at  night  she  heard  her  husband  return 
to  the  house.  The  door  of  his  study  slammed, 
and  then  all  the  house  was  quiet.  She  waited 
for  hours,  and  he  did  not  come  upstairs.  At 
last,  in  the  dawn,  she  could  bear  the  suspense 
no  longer,  but  arose  and  went  down  to  the 
study.  She  knocked,  but  there  was  no  answer. 
She  thought  that  he  might  be  asleep,  and  opened 
the  door  softly.  The  candles  were  flaring,  yel- 
low and  ghastly  in  the  gray  dawn,  lighting  up 
the  little  picture  of  her  own  loveless  face. 

The  poet  lay  in  an  ugly  attitude,  as  though 
he  had  fallen,  on  the  floor  beneath  the  picture. 
His  lips  were  white,  save  in  just  one  place 
where  there  was  a  curious  scarlet  stain;  and 
his  eyes 


"  Otho,  stop !  stop ! "  cried  Yseult.     We  were 
all  startled  a  little  at  the  suddenness  of  it.     For 


WHITE  NIGHTS  201 

a  moment  I  was  doubtful,  and  then  I  saw  that 
all  was  right,  that  she  was  just  carrying  out 
the  plan.  "I  can  bear  it  no  longer,"  she  went 
on,  turning  to  Lilias ;  "  Lilias,  dearest  Lilias,  I 
must  tell  you.  Hilaro  will  not  come  to  you  to- 
night. He  will  never  come  to  you  any  more. 
He  is  dead." 

"What  are  you  saying?  What  do  you 
mean?"  said  Rosalys  excitedly.  Lilias  said 
nothing.  She  was  staring  blankly  at  the  white 
curve  of  the  road. 

"This  morning  at  dawn  I  was  on  the  cliff 
edge.  Otho  and  Prince  Hilaro  stood  there  to- 
gether. And  as  I  watched,  hidden,  Otho  drew 
a  knife  and  stabbed  the  prince  in  the  throat, 
and  flung  him  over  the  cliff." 

She  spoke  boldly,  defiantly,  dramatically.  As 
she  was  speaking,  I  saw  lights  appear  in  the  dis- 
tance on  the  road,  and  knew  that  they  were  bring- 
ing the  body  of  the  dead  prince.  Lilias  saw 
them,  and  with  a  low  cry  fell  forward  on  the 
grass  fainting.  The  watchman  on  the  tower  saw 
them  too,  and  gave  his  signal.  Immediately 
the  whole  palace  was  lit  up,  and  the  doors  were 
flung  open,  and  the  musicians  stationed  there 
began  a  joyful  triumphant  march. 

"  I  will  go  and  stop  the  music  and "  Yseult 

paused,  then  hastened  into  the  palace. 

And  Rosalys  said  to  me,  "  Why  do  you  stand 


202  STORIES   AND   INTERLUDES 

there,  Otho,  with  staring  eyes,  doing  nothing? 
Deny  it!     I  command  you  to  deny  it." 
"  It  is  true !"  I  answered. 


And  so  all  ends  happily — for  me,  at  least. 
There  was  a  trial — a  matter  of  form,  since  both 
accuser  and  accused  were  agreed .  To  have  lived 
on  would  have  been  sad  enough ;  but  to  die  is 
easy.  I  have  often  wondered  why  those  who 
would  write  or  tell  a  pathetic  story  will  make 
it  end  with  death.  To  have  endured  the  great- 
est sorrow  and  still  to  live  is  sad  indeed.  Death 
can  be  very  happy.  Only  I  would  that  by  my 
death  I  could  bring  back  Hilaro  to  life !  Oh, 
my  Princess  Lilias,  I  have  at  least  saved  you 
one  thing — you  can  still  love  your  sister  Yseult ! 
Sooner  or  later  I  think  that  you  will  make  her 
good  like  yourself.  Indeed,  she  was  good  but 
for  that  night  of  madness ;  and  there  are  things 
which  we  cannot  control  at  all — we  cannot  say 
that  we  will  love  this  and  not  that.  It  is  as  it 
comes.  No  man  thinking  of  his  own  love-story 
can  well  believe  in  his  own  free-will.  I  know 
that  Princess  Lilias  will  not  lose  her  reason  nor 
take  her  life;  after  some  months  she  will  try 
to  speak  and  smile  once  more ;  she  will,  most 
pathetically,  interest  herself  in  the  lives  of 
others.  But  she  will  never  forget,  and  memory 


WHITE  NIGHTS  203 

will  soon  wear  out  her  strength.  I  have  heard 
no  more  of  the  princesses.  I  have  written  all 
this  in  the  week  between  my  sentence  and  my 
death.  I  am  told  nothing,  and  I  can  only 
wonder. 

But  it  is  late — late  at  night — and  to-morrow 
there  will  be  no  more  wonder  of  any  kind,  and 
no  more  trouble,  and  no  more  vain  longing. 


THE   END. 


TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

A  Pure  Woman,  Faithfully  Presented.  By  THOMAS 
HARDY,  author  of  "The  Woodlanders,"  "A  Laodi- 
cean," etc.  Illustrated.  Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Orna- 
mental, $1  50.  Neiv  Edition,  revised  and  consider- 
ably expanded  by  the  author,  according  to  the  latest 
English  edition. 

A  remarkably  fine  and  moving  story.  It  is  marked  by  all 
those  qualities  of  genius  which  we  are  accustomed  to  associate 
with  the  work  of  Mr.  Hardy.  It  is  full  of  poetry  of  incident  and 
phrase. ...  A  great  story.  Nobody  should  miss  it. — N.  Y.  Sun. 

In  "Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles  "  Thomas  Hardy  exhibits  the 
strongest,  and  in  some  respects  the  best,  piece  of  literary  work 
that  has  ever  left  his  pen. — Philadelphia  Ledger. 

One  of  the  few  great  novels  of  the  century. — N.  Y.  Mail 
and  Express. 

Not  only  by  far  the  best  work  Mr.  Hardy  has  done ;  it  is  one 
of  the  strongest  novels  that  have  appeared  for  a  long  time.  .  .  . 
A  more  tragic  or  powerfully  moving  story  than  that  of  Tess  lives 
not  in  fiction ;  and  the  pity  of  it  is  heightened  by  the  exquisite 
pastoral  scenes  in  which  it  is  mainly  set.  .  .  .  The  book  is  full 
of  suggestion  on  questions  which  have  never  agitated  men's 
minds  more  than  at  the  present  time.  ...  It  is  certainly  a  mas- 
terpiece, and  one  upon  which  the  reputation  of  the  author  may 
safely  rest. — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

Mr.  Hardy  has  written  a  novel  that  is  not  only  good,  but 
great.  .  .  .  "Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles"  is  well  in  front  of  Mr. 
Hardy's  previous  work,  and  is  destined,  there  can  be  no  doubt, 
to  rank  high  among  the  achievements  of  Victorian  novelists. — 
Athencenm,  London. 

The  best  English  novel  that  has  appeared  for  many  a  day. 
.  .  .The  book  is  the  most  ingeniously  constructed  and  artisti- 
cally developed  that  has  been  produced  by  an  English  novelist 
since  George  Eliot's  time. — Philadelphia  Bulletin. 

Powerful  and  strange  in  design,  splendid  and  terrible  in  exe- 
cution, this  story  brands  itself  upon  the  mind  as  with  the  touch 
of  incandescent  iron. — Academy,  London. 


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THE  MOUSE-TRAP,   AND   OTHER  FARCES.     Illustrated. 
12mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 

THE  ALBANY  DEPOT.     A  Farce.    Illustrated.    Small  16mo, 
Cloth,  Ornamental,  50  cents. 

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CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER. 

AS  WE  WERE  SAYING.  With  Portrait,  and  Illustrated  by 
H.W.  McViCKAR  and  Others.  16mo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  00. 
So  dainty  and  delightsome  a  little  book  may  it  be  everybody's  good 

hap  to  possess.— Evangelist,  N.  Y. 

OUR   ITALY.      Illustrated.      8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  Uncut 

Edges  and  Gilt  Top,  $2  60. 

In  this  book  are  a  little  history,  a  little  property,  a  few  fascinating 
statistics,  many  interesting  facts,  much  practical  suggestion,  and 
abundant  humor  and  charm.—  Evangelist,  N.  Y. 

A  LITTLE  JOURNEY  IN  THE  WORLD.  A  Novel.  Post 
8vo,  Half  Leather,  $1  50. 

The  vigor  and  vividness  of  the  tale  and  its  sustained  interest  are  not 
Its  only  or  its  chief  merits.  It  is  a  study  of  American  life  of  to-day, 
possessed  with  shrewd  insight  and  fidelity.— GEORGK  WIU.IAM  CURTIS. 

A  powerful  picture  of  that  phase  of  modem  life  in  which  unscrupu- 
lously acquired  capital  is  the  chief  agent. — Boston  Post. 

STUDIES  IN  THE  SOUTH  AND  WEST,  with  Comments  on 
Canada.  Post  8vo,  Half  Leather,  $1  75. 

Perhaps  the  most  accurate  and  graphic  account  of  these  portions  of 
the  country  that  has  appeared,  taken  all  in  all.  ...  A  book  most 
charming— a  book  that  no  American  can  fail  to  enjoy,  appreciate,  aud 
highly  prize.— Boston  Traveller. 

THEIR  PILGRIMAGE.     Richly  Illustrated  by  C.  S.  REINHART. 

Post  8vo,  Half  Leather,  $2  00. 

Mr.  Warner's  pen-pictures  of  the  characters  typical  of  each  resort, 
of  the  manner  of  life  followed  at  each,  of  the  humor  and  absurdities 
peculiar  to  Saratoga,  or  Newport,  or  Bar  Harbor,  as  the  case  may  be, 
are  as  good-natured  as  they  are  clever.  The  satire,  when  there  is  any, 
is  of  the  mildest,  aud  the  general  tone  is  that  of  one  glad  to  look  on 
the  brightest  side  of  the  cheerful,  pleasure-seeking  world  with  which 
he  mingles.— Christian  Union,  N.  Y. 


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BY  CONSTANCE  F.  WOOLSOK 

JUPITER  LIGHTS.     16mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 
EAST  ANGELS.     16mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 
ANNE.     Illustrated.     16uio,  Cloth,  $1  25. 
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There  is  a  certain  bright  cheerfulness  in  Miss  Woolson's  writing 
which  invests  all  her  characters  with  lovable  qualities. — Jewish  Advo- 
cate, N.  Y. 

Miss  Woolson  is  among  our  few  successful  writers  of  interesting 
magazine  stories,  and  her  skill  and  power  are  perceptible  in  the  de- 
lineation of  her  heroines  no  less  than  in  the  suggestive  pictures  of 
local  life.— Jewish  Messenger,  N.  Y. 

Constance  Fenimore  Woolson  may  easily  become  the  novelist  lau- 
reate  Boston  Globe. 

Miss  Woolson  has  a  graceful  fancy,  a  ready  wit,  a  polished  style,  and 
conspicuous  dramatic  power;  while  her  skill  in  the  development  of  a 
story  is  very  remarkable.—  London  Life. 

Miss  Woolson  never  once  follows  the  beaten  track  of  the  orthodox 
novelist,  but  strikes  a  new  and  richly-loaded  vein,  which  so  far  is  all 
her  own  ;  and  thus  we  feel,  on  reading  one  of  her  works,  a  fresh  sen- 
sation, and  we  put  down  the  book  with  a  sigh  to  think  our  pleasant 
task  of  reading  it  is  finished.  The  author's  lines  must  have  fallen  to 
her  in  very  pleasant  places ;  or  she  has,  perhaps,  within  herself  the 
wealth  of  womanly  love  and  tenderness  she  pours  so  freely  into  all 
she  writes.  Such  books  as  hers  do  much  to  elevate  the  moral  tone  of 
the  day— a  quality  sadly  wanting  in  novels  of  the  time.  —  Whitehall 
Review,  London. 

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BY  MARY  E.  WILKINS. 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  NUN,  and  Other  Stories.     16mo, 
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A   HUMBLE   ROMANCE,  and    Other   Stories.     16mo, 
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Only  an  artistic  hand  could  have  written  these  stories,  and  they  will 
make  delightful  reading. — Evangelist,  N.  Y. 

The  simplicity,  purity,  and  quaintness  of  these  stories  set  them  apart 
in  a  niche  of  distinction  where  they  have  no  rivals.—  Literary  World, 
Boston. 

The  reader  who  buys  this  book  and  reads  it  will  find  treble  his  money's 
worth  in  every  one  of  the  delightful  stories. — Chicago  Journal. 

Miss  Wilkins  is  a  writer  who  has  a  gift  for  the  rare  art  of  creating  the 
short  story  which  shall  be  a  character  study  and  a  bit  of  graphic  picturing 
in  one  ;  and  all  who  enjoy  the  bright  and  fascinating  short  story  will  wel- 
come this  volume. — Boston  Traveller. 

The  author  has  the  unusual  gift  of  writing  a  short  story  which  is  com- 
plete in  itself,  having  a  real  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end.  The  volume 
is  an  excellent  one. — Observer,  N.  Y. 

A  gallery  of  striking  studies  in  the  humblest  quarters  of  American 
country  life.  No  one  has  dealt  with  this  kind  of  life  better  than  Miss 
Wilkins.  Nowhere  are  there  to  be  found  such  faithful,  delicately  drawn, 
sympathetic,  tenderly  humorous  pictures. — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

The  charm  of  Miss  Wilkins's  stories  is  in  her  intimate  acquaintance 
and  comprehension  of  humble  life,  and  the  sweet  human  interest  she 
feels  and  makes  her  readers  partake  of,  in  the  simple,  common,  homely 
people  she  draws. — Springfield  Republican. 

There  is  no  attempt  at  fine  writing  or  structural  effect,  but  the  tender 
treatment  of  the  sympathies,  emotions,  and  passions  of  no  very  extraor- 
dinary people  gives  to  these  little  stories  a  pathos  and  human  feeling  quite 
their  own. — N.  Y.  Commercial  Advertiser. 

The  author  has  given  us  studies  from  real  life  which  must  be  the  result 
of  a  lifetime  of  patient,  sympathetic  observation.  ...  No  one  has  done 
the  same  kind  of  work  so  lovingly  and  so  well.—  Christian  Register, 
Boston. 

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SEVEN  DREAMERS. 

A  Collection  of  Seven  Stories.  By  ANNIE  TRUMBULL 
SLOSSON.  pp.  286.  Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental, 
$1  25. 

A  charming  collection  of  character  sketches  and  stories 
— humorous,  pathetic,  and  romantic — of  New  England 
country  life.  The  volume  includes  "How  Faith  Came 
and  Went,"  "Botany  Bay,"  "Aunt  Randy,"  "Fishin' 
Jimmy,"  " Butterneggs,"  "Deacon  Pheby's  Selfish  Nat- 
ur',"  and  "  A  Speakin'  Ghost." 


They  are  of  the  best  sort  of  "  dialect"  stories,  full  of  humor 
and  quaint  conceits.  Gathered  in  a  volume,  with  a  frontispiece 
which  is  a  wonderful  character  sketch,  they  make  one  of  the 
best  contributions  to  the  light  literature  of*  this  season. — Ob- 
server, N.  Y. 

Stories  told  with  much  skill,  tenderness,  and  kindliness,  so 
much  so  that  the  reader  is  drawn  powerfully  towards  the  poor 
subjects  of  them,  and  soon  learns  to  join  the  author  in  looking 
behind  their  peculiarities  and  recognizing  special  spiritual  gifts 
in  them. — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

These  stories  are  of  such  originality,  abounding  in  deep  pa- 
thos and  tenderness,  that  one  finds  himself  in  perfect  accord 
with  the  writer  as  he  reads  of  the  hallucinations  of  these  he- 
roes.—  Watchman,  Boston. 

Dreamers  of  a  singular  kind,  they  affect  us  like  the  inhabit- 
ants of  allegories — a  walk  of  literary  art  in  which  we  have  had 
no  master  since  the  pen  dropped  from  the  faint  and  feeble  fin- 
gers of  Hawthorne,  and  which  seems  native  to  Mrs.  Slosson. — 
N.  Y.  Mail  and  Express. 

The  sweetness,  the  spiciness,  the  aromatic  taste  of  the  forest 
has  crept  into  these  tales. — Philadelphia  Ledger. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

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BEN-HUE : 

A  TALE  OF  THE  CHRIST.  By  LEW.  WALLACE.  16mo, 
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quarter  Crushed  Levant,  $4  00. — GARFIELD  EDITION. 
2  volumes.  Illustrated  with  twenty  full-page  photo- 
gravures. Over  1,000  illustrations  as  marginal  draw- 
ings by  WILLIAM  MARTIN  JOHNSON.  Crown  8vo,  Silk 
and  Gold,  Uncut  Edges  and  Gilt  Tops,  $7  00.  (In  a 
Gladstone  box.) 

Anything  so  startling,  new,  and  distinctive  as  the  leading  feature  of 
this  romance  does  not  often  appear  in  works  of  fiction. .  .  .  Some  of 
Mr.  Wallace's  writing  is  remarkable  for  its  pathetic  eloquence.  The 
scenes  described  in  the  New  Testament  are  rewritten  with  the  power 
and  skill  of  an  accomplished  master  of  style.—  N.  Y.  Times. 

Its  real  basis  is  a  description  of  the  life  of  the  Jews  and  Romans  at 
the  beginning  of  the  Christian  era,  and  this  is  both  forcible  and  brill- 
iant. . .  .We  are  carried  through  a  surprising  variety  of  scenes;  we 
witness  a  sea-fight,  a  chariot-race,  the  internal  economy  of  a  Roman 
galley,  domestic  interiors  at  Antioch,  at  Jerusalem,  and  among  the 
tribes  of  the  desert;  palaces,  prisons,  the  hauiits  of  dissipated  Roman 
youth,  the  houses  of  pious  families  of  Israel.  There  is  plenty  of  ex- 
citing incident;  everything  is  auimated,^vivid,  and  glowing.— Ar.  Y. 
Tribune. 

It  is  full  of  poetic  beauty,  as  though  born  of  an  Eastern  sage,  and 
there  is  sufficient  of  Oriental  customs,  geography,  nomenclature,  etc., 
to  greatly  strengthen  the  semblance.— Boston  Commonwealth. 

"  Ben-Uur  "  is  interesting,  and  its  characterization  is  fine  and  strong. 
Meanwhile  it  evinces  careful  study  of  the  period  iu  which  the  scene  is 
laid,  and  will  help  those  who  read  it  with  reasonable  attention  to  real- 
ize the  nature  and  conditions  of  Hebrew  life  in  Jerusalem  and  Ro- 
man life  at  Autioch  at  the  time  of  our  Saviour's  advent — Examiner, 
N.Y. 

The  book  is  one  of  unquestionable  power,  and  will  be  read  with  un- 
wonted interest  by  many  readers  who  are  weary  of  the  conventional 
novel  and  romance.— Boston  Journal. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

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BY  MRS.  BURTON  HARRISON. 


BAR  HARBOR  DAYS.    A  Tale  of  Mount  Desert.    Il- 
lustrated by  Fenn  and  Hyde.     16mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 

A  bright  story  of  life  at  Mount  Desert.  ...  It  is  exceedingly  well 
done,  and  the  scenery,  the  ways  of  the  people,  and  the  social  methods 
of  the  rnsticators  lend  interest  to  the  book.— Christian  Advocate,  N.  Y. 

The  book  is  bright  and  readable. —Courier,  Boston. 

A  delightful  book  about  Mount  Desert,  its  summer  inhabitants, 
their  sayings  and  doings. — A'.  Y.  Sun. 

One  of  the  most  attractive  books  of  the  season,  and  will  be  in  great 
demand  by  readers  who  wish  an  original,  captivating  summer  idyl.— 
Hartford  Post. 

HELEN  TROY     16mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 

It  is  a  breezy  little  society  novel,  with  a  pretty  plot  and  a  number 
of  capitally  drawn  characters.  ...  It  is  always  bright,  fresh,  and  en- 
tertaining, and  has  an  element  of  naturalness  that  is  particularly 
pleasing.  The  descriptions  are  very  spirited,  the  conversations  are 
full  of  point  and  often  genuinely  witty,  and  the  tone  of  the  whole  is 
both  refined  and  delicate. — Saturday  Evening  Gazette,  Boston. 

The  book  is  written  with  exceeding  cleverness,  and  abounds  in  de- 
lightful little  pictures.— The  Critic,  N.  Y. 

Mrs.  Harrison's  style  is  crisp,  epigrammatic,  piquant ;  she  shades 
her  characters  artistically,  paints  from  real  life,  and,  without  hurrying 
the  reader  along,  never  lets  her  story  drag.  . . .  The  merit  of  the  work 
lies  in  the  fidelity  of  its  portraiture  and  the  felicity  of  its  utterance.— 
N.  Y.  Herald. 

GOLDEN  ROD  .  AN  IDYL  OF  MOUNT  DESERT, 
32mo,  Paper,  25  cents ;  Cloth,  40  cents. 

A  very  sweet  little  story  of  a  successful  courtship,  wrought  into  a 
charming  description  of  scenery  and  life  ou  Mount  Desert. — Spring- 
field (111.)  State  Journal. 

This  is  a  most  charming  summer  story — "An  Idyl  of  Mount  Des- 
ert"—the  mere  reading  of  which  makes  you  long  to  be  there,  and  to 
feel  sure  you  will  find  the  delightful  people,  and  just  in  the  particular 
nooks,  you  have  been  reading  about.  —  Galexburg  (111.)  Republican 
Register. 

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BY  AMELIE   KIVES. 

A  BROTHER  TO  DRAGONS,  AND  OTHER  OLD-TIME 

TALES.     Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Extra,  $1  00. 

VIRGINIA    OF    VIRGINIA.     A  Story.      Illustrated. 
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Oue  is  permitted  to  discover  qualities  of  mind  and  n  proficiency  and 
capacity  in  art  from  which  something  new  aud  distinctively  the  work 
of  genius  may  be  anticipated  in  American  literature.—  Boston  Globe. 

Miss  Rives  has  imagination,  breadth,  and  a  daring  and  courage 
oftenest  spoken  of  as  masculine.  Moreover,  she  is  exquisitely  poet- 
ical, and  her  ideals,  with  all  the  mishaps  of  her  delineations,  are  of  an 
exalted  order.— K  Y.  Star. 

It  was  little  more  than  two  years  ago  that  Miss  Rives  made  her  first 
literary  conquest,  a  conquest  BO  complete  and  astonishing  as  at  once 
to  give  her  fame.  How  well  she  has  sustained  and  added  to  the  repu- 
tation she  so  suddenly  won,  we  all  know,  and  the  permanency  of  that 
reputation  demonstrates  conclusively  that  her  success  did  not  depend 
upon  the  lucky  striking  of  a  popular  fancy,  but  that  it  rests  upon  en- 
during qualities  that  are  developing  more  and  more  richly  year  by 
year.  —Richmond  State. 

It  is  evident  that  the  author  has  imagination  in  an  unusual  degree, 
much  strength  of  expression,  aud  skill  in  delineating  character. — Bos- 
ton Journal. 

There  are  few  young  writers  who  begin  a  promising  career  with  so 
much  spontaneity  and  charm  of  expression  as  is  displayed  by  Misa 
Rives. — Literary  World,  Boston. 

The  trait  which  the  author  seems  to  take  the  most  pleasure  in  de- 
picting is  the  passionate  loyalty  of  a  girl  to  her  lover  or  of  a  young 
•wife  to  her  husband,  and  her  portrayal  of  this  trait  has  feeling,  and  is 
set  off  by  an  unconventional  style  and  brisk  movement. — The  Book 
Buyer,  N.  Y. 

There  is  such  a  wealth  of  imagination,  snch  an  exuberance  of  strik- 
ing language  in  the  productions  of  this  author,  as  to  attract  and  hold 
the  reader. — Toledo  Blade. 

Miss  Rives  is  essentially  a  teller  of  love  stories,  and  relates  them 
with  such  simple,  straightforward  grace  that  she  at.  once  captures  the 
sympathy  and  interest  of  the  reader.  .  .  .  There  is  a  freshness  of  feeling 
and  a  mingling  of  pathos  and  hninor  which  are  simply  delicious.— iVew 
London  Telegraph. 


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THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  JANIZARIES. 

A  Talc  of  the  Times  of  Scanderbcg  and  the  Fall  of 
Constantinople.  By  JAMES  M.  LUDLOW,  D.D., 
Litt.D.  16mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

The  author  writes  clearly  and  easily ;  his  descriptions  are 
often  of  much  brilliancy,  while  the  whole  setting  of  the  story  is 
of  that  rich  Oriental  character  which  fires  the  fancy. — Boston 
Courier. 

Strong  in  its  central  historical  character,  abounding  in  inci- 
dent, rapid  and  stirring  in  action,  animated  and  often  brilliant 
in  style. —  Christian  Union,  N.  Y. 

Something  new  and  striking  interests  us  in  almost  every  chap- 
ter. The  peasantry  of  the  Balkans,  the  training  and  govern- 
ment of  the  Janizaries,  the  interior  of  Christian  and  Moslem 
camps,  the  horrors  of  raids  and  battles,  the  violence  of  the  Sul- 
tan, the  tricks  of  spies,  the  exploits  of  heroes,  engage  Mr.  Lud- 
low's  fluent  pen. — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

Dr.  Ludlow's  style  is  a  constant  reminder  of  Walter  Scott, 
and  the  book  is  to  retain  a  permanent  place  in  literature. —  Ob- 
server, N.  Y. 

An  altogether  admirable  piece  of  work — picturesque,  truthful, 
and  dramatic. — Newark  Advertiser. 

A  most  romantic,  enjoyable  tale.  ...  As  affording  views  of 
inner  life  in  the  East  as  long  ago  as  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  this  tale  ought  to  have  a  charm  for  many ;  but  it  is 
full  enough  of  incident,  wherever  the  theatre  of  its  action  might 
be  found,  to  do  this. —  Troy  Press. 

The  author  has  used  his  material  with  skill,  weaving  the  facts 
of  history  into  a  story  crowded  with  stirring  incidents  and  un- 
expected situations,  and  a  golden  thread  of  love-making,  under 
extreme  difficulties,  runs  through  the  narrative  to  a  happy  issue. 
— Examiner,  N.  Y. 

One  of  the  strongest  and  most  fascinating  historical  novels  of 
the  last  quarter  of  a  century. — Boston  Pilot. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

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A   KING   OF  TYEE. 

A  Tale  of   the  Times  of   Ezra  and  Nehemiah. 
By  JAMES  M.  LUDLOW,  D.  D.      16mo,  Cloth, 

Ornamental,  $1  00. 


The  picture  of  the  life  and  manners  of  that  far-away  period 
is  carefully  and  artistically  drawn,  the  plot  is  full  of  interest, 
and  the  whole  treatment  of  the  subject  is  strikingly  original, 
and  there  is  a  dramatic  intensity  in  the  story  which  will  at  once 
remind  the  reader  of  "  Ben-Hur." — Boston  Traveller. 

It  is  altogether  a  fresh  and  enjoyable  tale,  strong  in  its  sit- 
uations and  stirring  in  its  actions. — Cincinnati  Commercial- 
Gazette. 

Another  distinct  success  in  the  field  of  historical  fiction.  ... 
Must  be  unhesitatingly  set  down  as  a  highly  satisfactory  per- 
formance.— Boston  Beacon. 

In  "A  King  of  Tyre  "  we  live  and  move  amid  old  ideas,  old 
superstitions,  and  an  extinct  civilization.  But  this  vanished  order 
of  things  the  author  has  pierced  to  the  core,  aud  laid  bare  the 
human  heart  that  animates  it  all.  When  we  say  that  his  tale 
is  interesting,  that  it  is  satisfying,  that  it  is  dramatically  con- 
clusive, we  give  it  high  praise,  yet  we  give  it  deliberately,  and 
are  convinced  that  the  opinion  of  all  intelligent  readers  will 
confirm  the  verdict. — Churchman,  N.  Y. 

Vivid  with  the  richness  of  Oriental  habits  and  customs,  and 
the  weird  accompaniments  of  pagan  worship,  this  tale  of  the 
times  after  the  return  of  the  Hebrews  to  their  own  land,  will 
hold  the  attention  of  the  reader  with  unflagging  interest.  Its 
development  shows  marked  ability  and  skill.  There  is  an  his- 
torical basis  to  the  story  which  gives  it  additional  attraction. — 
Living  Church,  Chicago. 

Will  enhance  the  reputation  of  the  author,  and  can  be  wel- 
comed as  not  only  a  novel  of  absorbing  interest,  but  a  faithful 
study  and  portraiture  of  an  eventful  historical  period. — Chris- 
tian Intelligencer,  N.  Y. 

PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

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TWO   USEFUL   HANDBOOKS. 


EVERYBODY'S  WRITING-DESK  BOOK.  By 
CHARLES  NISBET  and  DON  LEMON.  Revised  and 
Edited  by  JAMES  BALDWIN,  Ph.D.  Square  16mo, 
Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  00. 

This  little  book  is  at  once  a  guide  and  a  friend.  .  .  .  The 
claim  that  the  work  will  be  found  to  comprise  in  one  handy 
volume  all  needful  instruction  and  guidance  on  all  questions 
connected  with  writing  can  readily  be  admitted. — Philadelphia 
Record. 

An  excellent  little  manual  of  grammar,  composition,  etc., 
intended  "for  the  service  of  all  who  write."  .  .  .  This  is  a 
thoroughly  helpful  and  convenient  book  of  reference. — Chi- 
cago Tribune. 

A  capital  book  for  the  student.  Its  rules  for  composition, 
grammar,  and  punctuation  are  simple  and  clear,  and  well  cal- 
culated to  start  the  student  to  thinking.  ...  It  is  an  excellent 
book  for  the  pocket  or  the  satchel. —  Chicago  Inter- Ocean. 

EVERYBODY'S  POCKET  CYCLOPAEDIA  of 
Things  Worth  Knowing,  Things  Difficult  to 
Remember,  and  Tables  of  Reference.  Square 
16mo,  Cloth,  75  cents. 

The  little  book  is  really  a  fascinating  storehouse  of  "  things 
worth  knowing "  and  easily  discovered  by  reference  to  its 
twenty-five-page  index. —  Critic,  N.  Y. 

An  admirable  little  mentor  in  the  thousand  and  one  things 
that  are  forever  eluding  memory — things  that  we  ought  to 
know  in  every  pursuit  of  life. — Pi'etbytcrian,  Philadelphia. 

It  is  remarkable  how  many  "things  worth  knowing  and 
things  difficult  to  remember"  are  here  crowded  into  small 
space.  He  is  an  exceptionally  curious  person  who  cannot 
here  gratify  his  curiosity. — JV.  Y.  Sun. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

JS@T  The  above  work*  are  for  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be  sent  by 
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ada, or  Mexico,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


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